


Once Upon an October

by almostannette



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anastasia!AU, Blood, Historical References, Inspired by Anastasia (1997), Multi, Non-Graphic Description of Injuries, Period-Typical Homophobia, ballerina!Gaby, train accidents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:16:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21990355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostannette/pseuds/almostannette
Summary: Gaby Teller doesn't think she's Grand Duchess material.Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo beg to differ.An American conman, a Russian secret agent, and a false Grand Duchess. What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller, Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Comments: 75
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for over a year, and now I'm finally getting around to posting it! This is, essentially, an Anastasia (1997) AU with a little twist ;)
> 
> Any relevant sources of inspiration etc. will always be included in the chapter endnotes. ;)

**Moscow, 1932**

A broad-shouldered, dark-haired man in his early thirties walks through the streets of Moscow. The brisk Russian night keeps him hidden and he moves in the shadows of buildings whenever he can. Not that he necessarily has to hide, but he likes to practice not being seen, not drawing attention to himself.

Napoleon Solo pretends he doesn’t notice it when a figure detaches itself from the obscurity of a back alley and starts sticking to his heels.

Feigning imperturbability, he continues through Moscow’s inner city, on his way to the best address in town. The Hotel Metropol offers its guests luxurious accommodation with the highest possible amount of discretion, provided you have enough money or, even better, good connections. Napoleon has both.

Even though he visits the Hotel Metropol on a weekly basis, he can’t help feeling on edge. Tonight, he is not anticipating the proverbial roll in the hay. No, a far more important meeting is going to take place tonight. 

Napoleon enters the lobby of the Metropol, greets the concierge, and requests the usual room with a confident smile. Nimble fingers slip the concierge a couple of dollar notes – foreign currency is highly sought after.

A quick glance into one of the mirrors in the lobby verifies that his pursuer has not yet entered the hotel. Napoleon gives him ten minutes, fifteen at the very most.

He adjusts his tie and combs his hair back with his fingers before he accepts the room key from the concierge and makes his way to their usual room.

While he waits for his pursuer to catch up, Napoleon busies himself with checking the room for any contraptions which might enable a spy to listen in to any conversations. He doesn’t find anything, yet he knows that his partner will insist on checking the room again, later.

Someone knocks at the door in rapid succession; the signal they had agreed on. Napoleon perks up, and with one last longing look at the bed, he goes to answer the door.

As he expected, it’s his silent pursuer, a tall blond man and possibly the last person with whom Napoleon should be having clandestine meetings.

Napoleon lets him into the room, closes the door and says, “Good to see you, Peril.”

Illya frantically hushes him. He wants to know whether Napoleon has lost his mind and starts searching the room.

“You’d think I know how to look out for your little OGPU tricks by now,” he says provocatively, which earns him a dirty look from Illya.

“We come up with new ones every once in a while,” he replies drily and continues searching the room. 

Just as expected, Illya comes up empty-handed

Napoleon gives him his best “I told you so”-look and checks the time on his elegant and obviously expensive pocket watch. “She’s late,” he says, furrowing his brows. “She should have been here ten minutes ago.”

“What did you say her name was?”

“Gabriella Kuznetsova,” Napoleon replies. “She’s a principal dancer at the Bolshoi, and she bears a striking resemblance to Grand Duchess Maria. You will be able to see for yourself once she arrives.”

“This was not a good idea,” Illya says, while he paces the room.

“Why so doubtful? I thought I’d done my best to convince you,” Napoleon replies, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

He’s pleased to see Illya’s cheeks redden.

“You were very… convincing, yes,” Illya says. “I meant meeting with her here,” he adds. “Now we need to find another meeting spot. This one is compromised. We should have found a different place to meet with her.”

“If she agrees, there is nothing to worry about, since we’ll swear her to secrecy, anyway. She’d be incredibly stupid if she talked about it, and we don’t need a stupid partner for this con.”

Illya snorts. “What’s the expression? Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead.”

“Come on, you’re being extraordinarily paranoid now,” Napoleon says. “Even for your standards.”

“In desperate times, paranoia is what keeps you alive.” Illya clenches his fists until his knuckles are white. “You’re too trusting, Cowboy. You assume everyone is a friend right away, even though you don’t even know them yet. You let them get too close and that’s when they can stab you in the back. I don’t know, this might work in America, but here? Here we play by different rules. If she doesn’t agree, I will threaten her with exile and deportation, if she talks.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” Napoleon mutters. “You haven’t even met her yet.”

“She’s late, you said so yourself,” Illya counters. “If she arrives with a team of agents in tow, I will be very mad. Are you sure you gave her the right time and address?” Illya asks. “Or maybe she got cold feet and decided that she doesn’t have what it takes to play a convincing Grand Duchess.”

“I haven’t told her about our plan yet, but she could pull it off, I’m sure. I’ve spoken to her, and let me tell you if there’s one thing this girl doesn’t lack, it’s confidence and determination. You’re going to like her.”

“I don’t know, she sounds like a real piece of work,” Illya comments, but he sounds a bit less wary than before.

Napoleon counts that as a win.

“’A real piece of work'? You would know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Napoleon laughs.

Illya opens his mouth to reply, but he’s interrupted by someone banging on the door in a rather aggressive manner. He gives Napoleon an alarmed look. “That can’t be her, can it? It doesn’t sound like a ballerina, it sounds more like a colleague of mine. Cowboy, I swear, if they’re coming to arrest us, I will—"

“Only one way to find out,” Napoleon cuts in. He gives Illya a sign to stay towards the back of the room and slowly approaches the door. Only years of training himself to appear relaxed even in the most stressful situations keep his hands from shaking - it doesn’t mean his heart isn’t racing inside his chest, though.

He opens the door just an inch and peers outside. Contrary to what Illya expected, there aren’t any of Illya’s colleagues, ready to haul them off to the cellars at the OGPU headquarters at Lubyanka.

Instead, he’s face-to-face, or rather, chest-to-face with a skinny woman on crutches. She’s huffing and puffing, slightly red in the face, and a few wisps of her brunette hair, which have escaped her bun, are plastered to her forehead, which is coated in a thin sheen of sweat.

“Gaby,” Napoleon greets her. “I’m glad that you could make it, I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about our meeting. What happened?” he adds, gesturing to the crutches.

“I got injured,” Gaby says. “Obviously.”

She hobbles into the room. Usually, she moves gracefully, Napoleon has seen her on stage. Now, with the crutches and the relatively fresh plaster cast on her right foot, she stomps around, and it looks like a rather awkward and uncoordinated affair.

“The injury means our deal is called off,” she remarks, making her way further into the room. “But the least you can do is let me rest, now that I made it all the way here.”

Napoleon frowns, closes the door, and rejoins her.

Meanwhile, Gaby has flopped down in one of the comfortable armchairs in the suite, the crutches are leaning against the side of the chair.

“This is the ballerina?” Illya says as he makes his way out of the bedroom towards them. “I expected something… different.”

Gaby gasps as she spots Illya. Her expression oscillates between shock, anger, and disgust. Illya really doesn’t deserve the latter, at least in Napoleon’s opinion.

“This was not part of the plan, Mr.  _ Solo _ ,” she points out as soon as she’s regained her composure. “You never said anything about sleeping with a friend of yours.”

Illya’s brows knit together until they’re almost touching. “Do you want to explain, Cowboy?” he says slowly. “Why does she think she’s here for a, what do you call it, hook-up?”

Gaby looks from Illya to Napoleon. “Is that  _ not  _ what you invited me to?”

“What did you tell her?” Illya asks, looking for all intents and purposes like he’s not sure whether he’s annoyed at Napoleon, Gaby or both.

“I asked her to meet with me to discuss a mutually beneficial business deal,” Napoleon replies.

Gaby snorts and holds up a hand. “Let’s be a little more specific, alright? You came to my dressing room, introduced yourself as Mr. ‘Solo’ and said you can make me rich and famous. If I was interested, I should meet you at the Hotel Metropol. How was I supposed to interpret this? This is exactly how a sponsor would approach the dancer of his choice.”

If Napoleon were capable of blushing, he would probably be flushed red right now. Beginner’s mistake, he thinks and clears his throat. “Well,” he says and puts on a sheepish expression, hoping to pacify both Illya and Gaby. The latter’s dark brown eyes are sparkling dangerously, watching his every move. “I didn’t know about the sponsorship practices. I apologize if you interpreted my offer this way. While I’m sure you’re an excellent dancer and lover, this is not why I – we – are interested in you.”

Gaby raises an eyebrow. “That sounds like you’re trying to talk me into doing something illegal,” she says. Neither Napoleon or Illya object to her statement. “Oh, so I’m right? How illegal is it, exactly? And is there a chance you’d get caught? I’d like to avoid prolonged contact with the OGPU, thank you very much.”

“Technically, you already  _ are  _ in contact with them,” Illya says with a stony expression. “Since I’m an OGPU agent.”

Gaby flinches and hysterically tries to grab her crutches. “I didn’t agree to anything,” she says quickly, stumbling over her own tongue. “I didn’t agree to  _ anything _ . In fact, I was only asking so that I could report it to the OGPU later. I swear!” She stares at Napoleon with wide eyes, shining with unshed tears. “What’s the meaning of this? Why did you bring me here? What did I do?!”

After a quick look at Illya, Napoleon kneels in front of Gaby’s chair, so he’s not looking down on her. “There is no need to be afraid of Illya,” he says quietly. “He may work for the OGPU, but he’s not going to betray us. We’re working together. We’re trying to flee the country.”

Gaby looks unconvinced. Her hands are shaking, and she crosses her arms in front of her chest to hide it. “You want to defect? What do you need me for?”

“We’re not only planning to defect,” Napoleon continues. “We also plan to get rich. I have debts to pay off and, well… everything is easier when you’re rich, isn’t it?” he adds and catches Illya’s gaze.

“Hopefully,” Illya says. His voice sounds much more vulnerable than Napoleon would have expected, given that they’re not alone.

Gaby narrows her eyes for a moment and opens her mouth but closes it again. She uncrosses her arms and fiddles with the hem of her fashionable dress. “And you need  _ me  _ to get rich?” she asks, feigning disinterest.

“It may come as a surprise to you, but you look a lot like a certain Grand Duchess, and that could make us all a lot of money,” Napoleon says and gets up again. “I’m sure you’ve heard that most of the Imperial Family, including the Czar, his wife, and their five children disappeared in 1916, thanks to the revolution. However, the Dowager Empress Maria, as well as two of her daughters, managed to flee and set up court in Copenhagen, Denmark, since the Dowager Empress is a Danish princess by birth. Long story short, the Dowager Empress promised a large reward to the person who’d reunite her with at least one of her family members.”

“And you want me to…?” Gaby trails off, looking from Napoleon to Illya and back again.

“We want you to pretend to be a Grand Duchess well enough for the Dowager Empress to believe it. Illya and I collect the reward money and after that, you’re free to do whatever it is that Grand Duchesses do these days,” Napoleon says and flashes her a smile.

Gaby only blinks. “ _ This _ ,” she scoffs, “This is probably the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard of. You expect this to work? Really? I don’t know anything about the Imperial Family! And how would I even explain the fact that I’ve miraculously survived the revolution? Why did I decide to become a ballerina? Your plan is full of holes, I hope you know that. And even  _ if _ it worked and they believe I’m a Grand Duchess – what would I do if an actual member of the Imperial Family surfaced and claimed their inheritance?”

“ _ That _ is not going to happen,” Illya cuts in. “Anyone who claims to be a member of the lost Imperial Family is a pretender.”

“And how do  _ you  _ know?” Gaby asks, gesticulating wildly. “I thought Napoleon here just explained that the Dowager Empress is going to pay people a reward if they return members of the Imperial Family.”

“I work for the OGPU,” Illya replies. “We have access to more information than the Dowager Empress. If anyone knows what happened to the Imperial Family, it’s us. Specifically,  _ me _ . My first larger mission was to locate the graves of the Romanovs. The Central Committee wanted to disprove the rumors once and for all. Trust me, none of them escaped the Bolsheviks. They’re all dead.”

Gaby bites her lip and wraps her arms around herself. “If you know what happened to them, why is it not common knowledge?” she asks. “There would hardly be a reward if the Dowager Empress knew her relatives are dead.”

Illya shrugs. “A little bit of uncertainty is what keeps things interesting,” he explains. “The Party knows the Romanovs have all been dealt with according to Lenin’s orders. That doesn’t mean that they have to publicize that knowledge. The Czar is dead, that’s what matters.”

“We can get into the specifics of what happened next time,” Napoleon says, as though Gaby had already agreed to play the Grand Duchess for them. “You’ve brought up some excellent points, Gaby. Once Illya gets hold of the files from the OGPU archives, we can start working on a convincing backstory for you.”

Gaby’s mouth is pressed into a thin line. Her narrowed eyes linger on her crutches for a long moment. “Alright,” she says at last. “I’ll meet with you to develop a better plan. I want to see if you’re only bragging, or if you actually have the skills to back up that confidence.  _ However,  _ I have a condition: Should the Dowager Empress realize that I’m not actually a Romanov, the two of you are not going to disappear and leave me on my own. You’re going to take me to Paris.”

“Why Paris?” Napoleon cuts in. “Why not London, or perhaps New York?”

Gaby rolls her eyes. “Because there is a very prestigious ballet company in Paris,” she says. “Some of the best doctors in the world are working with them, or so I’ve heard. They’re the experts when it comes to injuries sustained while dancing. If they can’t fix my foot, nobody can. The doctors in Moscow sure can’t.” She grimaces and taps the clunky plaster cast around her foot. “I think most of the doctors here got their education during the Civil War. ‘Don’t complain! You’ll be able to walk again.’ Thank you, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be able to dance again.”

Illya clears his throat. The tiniest smile is playing around the corners of his mouth, making him look like the cat who’s got the canary.

“You sound like you’ve thought about this quite a lot,” he begins in a low voice.

Napoleon feels the hair at the back of his neck stand up. Is appearing so intimidating something they taught to all OGPU agents or was it a skill Illya picked up on his own? Once the meeting is over, he’ll have to ask Illya to give him a couple of pointers on how to appear more intimidating. It’ll be helpful when he needs to explain himself to some underpaid and overworked American government official. His superiors don’t expect him to return to America for another four years. (If Napoleon is perfectly honest with himself, they probably don’t expect him to return at all. At least, not alive and well.)

“And, for all your earlier doubts, you seem to have changed your mind quickly, agreeing to help us with our plan,” Illya continues. “Of course, provided you have an exit option should it not work out. You know, I’m starting to wonder… it wasn’t Napoleon and I who put the thought of defecting in your head, was it? You thought of that all on your own.”

Gaby’s nostrils flare in anger but she doesn’t answer. She simply stares at Illya with a defiant expression.

“He’s right, isn’t he?” Napoleon chimes in.

“What’s it to you?” Gaby asks flippantly. “Fleeing the country is easier if you don’t have to do it alone. For the record, I still doubt that anyone is ever going to believe me if I said I’m a Romanov, but if I can get to Paris, I can at least get my foot fixed. Sure, I wouldn’t live the life of a Grand Duchess, but at least I’d be able to work again.”

Napoleon turned to look at Illya and raised an eyebrow. “You heard what she just said?” he asked. “She was planning to use us the first chance she got. That’s impressive.”

In an obvious mockery of Napoleon, Gaby raised an eyebrow herself. “Don’t act so high and mighty,” she drawled. “As if you weren’t thinking of doing the exact same thing. Passing me off as a Grand Duchess and then abandoning me to fend for myself among all those royals while you’re riding off into the sunset with your boyfriend,  _ Cowboy _ .”

Illya splutters, trying and failing to suppress a laugh. “You were right,” he says. “I  _ do  _ like her.”

“Alright,” Gaby cuts in determinedly. “Now you know that I’m interested in taking part in your plan. Nonetheless, I want to know more about the two of you, before I even agree to meet with you again. I want you to convince me that you won’t be wasting my time. Oh, and I’m also very interested in hearing how and why you decided to have  _ me _ of all people pretend to be a Grand Duchess.”

“Do you want to explain, Peril?” Napoleon asks.

“It’s  _ your  _ plan,” Illya responds, still grinning from Gaby’s earlier comment.

“Well, thanks for the support,” Napoleon says, rolling his eyes theatrically. He pulls out a chair and sits down opposite Gaby, contemplating how he’s going to relate the story to Gaby.

“I came to the Soviet Union a little over a year ago,” he begins. “The American government sent me on a mission to Moscow. I should conduct espionage and gather information relevant to the USA. Now, you need to understand, I didn’t exactly volunteer for that position—"

“He wants to say he had a choice between going to jail, paying a hefty sum to make amends or accepting this assignment,” Illya interrupts. “He used to work as a spy in Western Europe but the American government decided he cost them too much money.

“It’s not my fault if most of my targets frequented casinos. I had to blend in,” Napoleon defends himself. “I would have been very close to exposing a network of criminals, too, when they sent me to Moscow. Their loss. Anyway, I got over the gambling compulsion a while ago.”

Gaby scoffs. “That makes you sound  _ very _ professional.”

Napoleon chooses to ignore her comment. “So, the government sent me on a mission to Moscow as a punishment. Five years with the option for an extension if I’m  _ successful _ ,” he says, mocking his boss’s stuck-up manner of speaking. “Nothing against your country, but  _ I’d  _ rather live somewhere I don’t have to be afraid of being arrested all the time. However, as long as I don’t pay off my debt to the government, I can’t return. And there aren’t that many legal ways to quickly make a lot of money, are there? I’m creative, and so I came up with the plan to find a fake Grand Duchess, leave the country and collect the reward money in Copenhagen. If anyone would be able to pull it off, it’s the two of us. We’ve been looking for suitable women for a couple of weeks when I saw you at the ballet and decided to approach you.”

Gaby nods but still looks suspicious. “Well, that explains  _ your _ motivation, Mr. Solo. What about you?” she asks, pointing a finger accusingly at Illya. “Why would an OGPU agent collaborate with an American spy?”

Napoleon looks at Illya, who gives him the tiniest nod as a sign of approval. “You’ve probably suspected it already, but Illya and I are together,” Napoleon says. “I know, you probably think that’s very unusual, but I want you to understand—"

“Are you  _ kidding _ me?” she laughs out loud.

Illya starts to look annoyed, but Gaby doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“At least half of my colleagues in the ballet company are interested in the same sex. Please don’t think that would shock me.”

“Well, that makes things easier, doesn’t it,” Napoleon says, a little awkwardly. He’d mentally prepared himself for having to explain that homosexuality is not a sin, or, in an atheist society like this one, not a sign of capitalist degeneration.

“We sleep with women, too,” Illya clarifies.

Napoleon isn’t quite sure if it was  _ supposed _ to sound like a threat or if Illya was trying to flirt. When it comes to Peril, it’s sometimes hard to tell those two apart. (Not that Napoleon would mind, he thinks it’s rather exciting.)

“If that was an offer, I’m flattered,” Gaby says drily. “But I thought you were trying to convince me to help you scam the Romanovs, so don’t distract from that. Why are you – as an OGPU agent – collaborating with an American spy? Because you’re in a relationship?”

Illya sighs. “Yes, and because I don’t actually want to work for the OGPU,” he confesses. “But I don’t have much of a choice in that respect,” he confesses.

Napoleon is impressed, although he won’t show it in front of Gaby just yet. He didn’t expect Illya to admit it so readily in front of a woman he’s only met today. It took him quite a while to admit it to Napoleon, after all.

“They don’t let you quit?” Gaby guesses. “You know too much, is that it?”

“I wish,” Illya mutters. “Being an OGPU agent runs in the family. Illya Nikolaevich Kuryakin, at your service. My adoptive father is the  _ head _ of the OGPU.”

Gaby’s expression rapidly changes between surprised, impressed, scared and finally settles on overwhelmed. “Oleg Kuryakin is your adoptive father?” she asks, voice shaking with fear.

“My mother married him after my father died in the Gulag,” Illya explains, having obvious troubles of keeping his voice neutral and under control. His voice shakes almost as much as Gaby’s did.

“Then your mother was Vasilisa Kuryakina?” Gaby asks. “The woman after whom the orphanage is named?”

“Precisely.”

The Vasilisa Kuryakina orphanage is located close to the OGPU headquarters at Lubyanka. Napoleon passes by it often enough. It has always reminded him more of a correctional facility than an orphanage (or a ‘children’s house’, as they’re euphemistically called). Its primary function is raising ideologically indoctrinated children whose devotion and loyalty to the state would be unwavering. No matter your socio-economic background – after a five-year stay at the Kuryakina orphanage, you’re well on your way to joining the OGPU.

While Illya hasn’t been subjected life at the orphanage, he was raised under the watchful eye of Oleg Kuryakin himself. Joining the OGPU had been expected of him.

As far as Napoleon is concerned, Illya is the only thing that made this exile bearable so far. Before the mission in Moscow, Napoleon had always enjoyed being in different countries, learning the customs of the land, and dabbling in the local language. (And if he earned a little extra money by tracking down valuable antiques and selling them to interested parties… well, what Napoleon’s supervisor didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.)

Working as a spy had been fun because Napoleon had known he could return home if he wanted to.

Now he doesn’t have that option anymore.

Napoleon’s prison may be vast since it is the largest country on Earth, but it still feels stifling and constricting. He hasn’t been this tied down since he left home.

Perhaps Illya is right, perhaps he is starting to act recklessly. Napoleon is burning with the need to escape, to invent himself anew. The promise of money, of financial freedom… how can it not be intoxicating?

“So, Illya has connections to the party elite,” Gaby says, pulling Napoleon out of his thoughts. “That can only mean one of two things: Either the OGPU are a lot less competent than we fear, or you’re much better at deception than you let on. How have they not figured out that you’re sleeping together?”

Illya coughs and flushes an unflattering shade of red.

Napoleon, on the other hand, chooses to roll with it. “Of course, they figured it out quickly,” he admits easily. “But we wouldn’t be spies if we didn’t have a solution to that problem. I told my handlers that Illya is dangerous and volatile but responds well to the right incentives. I gave them hope that I could possibly turn him into a double agent. Illya told Oleg a similar story, which may have involved the term ‘rotten capitalist’, I don’t know.”

“More specifically, it was ‘degenerate homosexual’,” Illya mumbles. “But yes, that’s essentially what we did.”

Gaby blinks a few times, incredulously, like she’s not sure what she’s supposed to believe anymore. “And that  _ works _ ?”

“Well, each week, we’re writing a report that’s some variation on ‘the target is not entirely convinced yet’. The information we pass along to our superiors is quite irrelevant, we just make it sound important,” Napoleon says.

“That’s impressive,” Gaby laughs, shaking her head in disbelief. “But I’m starting to ask myself how intelligent our intelligence agencies actually are.”

“When it comes to deceiving people,” Napoleon says, “The truth can be more effective than outright lies. Both our handlers know that Peril and I are sleeping together. We just bend the truth a little by letting them believe we’re doing it for the sake of the mission, not because we  _ want  _ to.”

“What’s with the nicknames, by the way?” Gaby asks. “Cowboy and Peril, I think? How did you come up with those?”

“Peril is short for ‘Red Peril’, I… uh… might have used that to refer to Illya in my initial reports,” Napoleon confesses.

“And Cowboy was my revenge,” Illya says with a smirk.

Traitor. 

“I like Cowboy,” Gaby drawls. “I feel like I could get used to it.” 

“Do we have a deal?” Napoleon asks, to no longer be the subject of discussing his slightly embarrassing nickname. “We all want to defect and we’re all interested in getting rich. In case our plan fails, Illya and I will be happy to help you get to Paris, to that famous surgeon you mentioned. However, we want you to make a real effort to pass as the Grand Duchess. Otherwise, the deal is void.”

“You bet I’m going to put effort into this,” Gaby says, as though the mere suggestion that she wouldn’t give it her all sounds preposterous to her.

They set up another meeting in a couple of days. Illya promises to get hold of confidential files, so they can start preparing Gaby for the role of her life, that of Grand Duchess Maria.

“Alright, then,” Gaby sighs, reaches for her crutches and grimaces. “I hate those things. I’m twice as slow as normal, and my arms are starting to hurt.”

Illya’s brows knit together until they’re almost touching. “I could request Oleg’s driver to take me home and have him drop you off at your place,” he suggests. “If that would be more comfortable for you,” he adds, a little awkwardly.

“If it’s your adoptive father’s driver, doesn’t  _ he _ need him?” Gaby asks. “People would be suspicious, no?”

“Oleg mostly sleeps at his office these days, so he likely won’t need the car,” Illya says with a shrug. “Anyway, good old Misha likes any excuse to drive the Packard.”

Napoleon is barely able to smother a laugh. He can appreciate the irony behind the statement – the Soviet Union imported luxury cars from the United States.

In addition to that, he wonders whether Gaby realizes what sort of effect she has on Illya, or if Illya realizes what Gaby is doing to him. It’s amusing and thrilling at the same time when he thinks of the possible consequences.

“I know that smile of yours… what’s so funny, Cowboy?” Illya asks, a little suspicious.

“Nothing, nothing,” Napoleon says. “Good idea to offer Gaby a ride,” he adds and winks provocatively. “I’d just like to point out that ‘good old Misha’ is going to think that you are returning Gaby to her apartment after a ‘rendezvous’. Gossip travels fast.”

“What?” Illya scoffs. “Do you think they’re going to assume that you’re jealous?”

“If they do, they don’t know me very well, do they?” Napoleon asks and turns to Gaby. “For your information, I’m not the jealous type, at least not if I get invited to join once in a while,” he says with a smirk.

Usually, a comment like that made to a woman gets a blush and a slightly ashamed laugh out of her. Instead, Gaby holds Napoleon’s gaze, not intimidated by his antics. He’s intrigued.

“Thanks for the heads-up Mr. Solo,” she says. “But maybe  _ I’m  _ the jealous type, did you think of that?”

Napoleon licks his lips. “This whole conversation was hypothetical anyway.”

“Was it?” Gaby retorts.

Illya pointedly clears his throat. “So, do you want me to request a car or not?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back with another chapter! A special thanks to everyone who's left kudos and/or commented on the previous chapter! <3
> 
> I'm playing a bit fast and loose with the timeline of the February Revolution and the October Revolution. In addition to that, I've changed some facts regarding the Imperial Family, especially regarding their ages, but the movie does, too, so let's call it creative freedom.

Gaby has always danced, for as long as she can remember.

Dancing had taken over her life when she’d only been a child. There had simply not been enough time for much else besides that, certainly not when she’d wanted to dance on a professional level.

The performances are tough, training is even tougher, and Gaby has learned how to structure her existence around that.

Once she’d grown from a girl into a woman, she’s taken her fair share of lovers. None of them stayed too long. She’s always been careful not to give too much of herself to anyone – her real love was the stage.

Life has a way of appearing easy when you don’t have time to reconsider. Instead, you live according to decisions you made so long you can barely remember it.

She made dancing the priority in her life.

And for a while, it had worked fine.

Day in and day out, she practiced with fanatical determination to get closer to her goal: Becoming a good enough dancer to be sent on tour abroad to showcase the artistic achievements of her country. Once there, she’d wait for the right moment and defect.

Until she slipped up. Now, her right foot was broken beyond repair and her dreams of the future were shattered. She might be able to work as a dance instructor for the youngest of the young. Gaby could already see herself correcting beginners’ mistakes until the end of her days.

Her former colleagues would sometimes whisper about Gabriella Kuznetsova, a talented young dancer who’d shown a lot of potential but had turned into just another pitiful has-been.

Enter Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin.

The moment she first met Solo, she took him for a potential sponsor. The fact that he was American had only come as a slight surprise. Foreigners  _ were  _ more common these days – either as socialist immigrants who no longer wanted to live in a capitalist country or as foreign professionals, most commonly engineers and other technicians, whose skills were highly sought after.

Gaby hadn’t been able to work out to which of these categories Napoleon Solo belonged. Nevertheless, he’d been perfectly civil, charming, and rather easy on the eyes, too. Gaby had gladly agreed to meet with him in a private setting.

Initially, his and Illya’s proposal had taken her by surprise. It sounded crazy and unlikely to work, but she had to acknowledge that it was unlikely she’d ever get a better opportunity to leave the Soviet Union behind.

Currently, Gaby’s impatiently waiting outside the dormitories of the Bolshoi personnel on Gorky Street. She’s still walking on crutches, so Illya promised to pick her up and take her to their new meeting spot. Gaby is not about to complain – being chauffeured around is infinitely more comfortable than taking a streetcar.

The elegant bullet-proof Packard stops in front of Gaby’s apartment complex.

Illya helps Gaby get into the car and she knows that many of her acquaintances must be watching from the windows.

At this rate, it won’t be long until she’ll have to deal with rumors. What are her colleagues going to accuse her of? Probably that she’s trying to improve her income by cozying up to the son of a high-ranking party member.

The driver – Misha, Gaby recalls – tries very hard not to appear interested in Illya’s interactions with Gaby.

‘Illya, your father is the head of the OPGU and you’re a spy yourself’, she wants to ask. ‘If  _ you _ are being spied on, what does that say about the condition of the OGPU?’

Their meeting spot turns out to be a regular apartment complex, perhaps a little more run-down than the average accommodation in the city. Gaby has a hard time hiding her disappointment. Secretly, she’d hoped Illya and Napoleon would take her to more places like the Metropol.

“Where are we?” she asks, as Illya helps her out of the car and gives instructions to the driver.

“A former Cheka stronghold,” Illya explains as soon as the car has disappeared from view. “The Metropol has become too dangerous. I don’t want more people than necessary to know about us.”

Against her intentions, Gaby snorts with laughter. “Your love nest with the American is the best address in town,” Gaby says, riling Illya up on purpose. She wants to find out how far she can go until his façade cracks. “But with  _ me _ you’ll meet in some former spy hideout. How romantic.”

Contrary to what Gaby expected, Illya stifles a burst of laughter. “Unlike the cowboy, you are not a spoiled capitalist,” he retorts.

They enter the building. The entrance hall looks like it has been abandoned for a few years. Gaby wonders why people haven’t moved in yet, claimed the building for themselves in a city in which living space is notoriously scarce. She looks around again, sees a staircase descending into the basement and remembers what Illya had told her about the history of the building – it used to be a Cheka stronghold.

She can guess what happened in that building, and why people might not want to use it as living space. The terror, the pain, and the suffering must have left traces.

“We’ll be on the second floor,” Illya says and gestures to the stairs leading to the upper levels. “Do you think you can walk up the stairs yourself?”

Gaby gives the stairs a determined look and tightens the grip on her crutches. “I’ll have to.”

Illya clears his throat. “I could carry you,” he says with a strange inflection to his voice.

Gaby isn’t sure whether it’s supposed to sound like a question or not. She licks her lips, not knowing what to say in response to that. A part of her wishes Napoleon was here with them – he’d come up with a witty remark to cut through the tension.

“I think I’ll manage on my own,” she says at last. “But thanks for the offer.”

Illya nods a little stiffly. “Of course.”

She quickly regrets not taking Illya up on his offer. When she finally reaches the second floor, her breath comes in greedy puffs. Despite the cool temperatures in the unheated building, a few drops of sweat are running down her spine and she feels uncomfortably hot.

The room Illya chose for their meeting has seen better days. The windows are grimy, and the air smells horribly stuffy. The only pieces of furniture are a rickety table and a few chairs.

Illya places the pile of files he brought from the OGPU archives on the table.

Gaby wipes the dust off one of the chairs as best as she can and sits down, letting out a sigh of relief. She stretches her hands and arms, which hurt from having to walk with crutches the whole time.

Illya is busy searching the room for bugs and any other surprises the overly suspicious OGPU might have hidden there.

Gaby glances at the files on the table, but before she can make up her mind whether she should take a sneak peek before the beginning of their actual meeting, Napoleon arrives.

“You’re late,” Illya remarks. “Were you being followed?”

Napoleon says he wasn’t.

Illya visibly relaxes and pulls Napoleon into a hug.

Gaby’s asking herself how the two men got to this point. It can’t have been smooth sailing.

Illya is sharp edges and suspicion, like an animal that’s been hurt and now shies away from both gentle touches and the lash of the whip.

Napoleon, on the other hand, is a curious mixture of aloofness and flamboyance. While he hints at sex so often that it seems like he just can’t help himself, Gaby suspects the tactic wouldn’t have worked on Illya…

She shakes her head to clear her thoughts. Why is she thinking about such things in the first place? It’s not her relationship.

“You’ve got the files I asked for?” Napoleon asks Illya.

“As many as I dared to take,” Illya replies, designating the pile on the table. “Help yourself.”

“What’s the plan?” Gaby asks as the men sit down, Napoleon to her left and Illya to her right. “And what’s in the files?”

“What actually happened to the Imperial Family,” Napoleon answers. “As we’ve said last time, the most effective way to come up with a backstory for you is to find out what happened to the real Grand Duchess. Once we have that information, we can go from there.”

Napoleon looks at Illya. “You’re the expert,” he says. “Want to take it from here?”

Illya searches through a couple of files and produces a somewhat faded photograph of a middle-aged couple.

The man has kind eyes, a neatly trimmed beard and he’s wearing an elaborate uniform. The woman at his side is wearing an elegant dress, she’s decked out with jewels and wears her hair in a complicated updo. The man seems happy and content; the woman does not. She seems to be masking her discomfort by cultivating a look of arrogance and superiority.

Gaby recognizes them instantly. “Czar Nicholas and Czarina Alexandra,” she says.

“After the revolution in 1916, they were separated from their children and sent to Siberia,” Illya says. “I’ve spoken to some of the men who guarded them during their exile. If they wanted to keep Nicholas and Alexandra in line, all they had to do was threaten to hurt their children. Of course, Lenin knew they would have to disappear sooner or later. The two were shot in early 1918. At the time, the regime only publicized the death of the Czar. The Czarina had powerful relatives abroad—"

“Powerful relatives abroad,” Napoleon cuts in. “Right. Not powerful enough to offer them shelter, though.”

“What happened to the children?” Gaby asks.

Illya searches through the files again and switches the photograph of the former rulers for another one – a family photo of five children. Four girls in matching white dresses are clustered around a little boy in a sailor’s suit.

“If I’m correct, this is the last official portrait taken before the revolution. From oldest to youngest, these are Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Anastasia, and Alexei,” Napoleon says. “And if you take Grand Duchess Maria, you’ll find that you look like her, Gaby.”

She picks up the photograph, studying the face of the girl Napoleon points out to her. Yes, there is a certain resemblance. The eyes, the lips, the jawline… and if she fixes her hair just so...

Napoleon and Illya had been on to something when they recruited her.

“I  _ do _ look like her,” she says. “But the girl was what, ten or eleven years old when this picture was taken?”

“Twelve, actually, but we’ll get to that,” Napoleon replies. “We need to know what happened to the children. Illya? Please proceed.”

Illya takes the photograph from Gaby’s hand and points to the older two girls. “The Grand Duchesses Olga and Tatiana,” he begins. “Also known as the ‘Big Pair’. After the revolution, they were under house arrest in one of the former palaces near Leningrad. Tatiana died in early 1917 of untreated typhoid fever. Olga lived about half a year longer. The guards panicked after one of them got her pregnant, they brought someone in to perform a then-illegal abortion and she didn’t survive the procedure.”

Gaby’s eyes widen and she reflexively finds herself clutching her belly. Napoleon is giving her a strange look and she forces herself to relax and breathe easier.

After a last glance at Grand Duchess Olga on the photograph, she focuses on the two younger girls.

Illya’s hand is shaking slightly as he points them out. “Grand Duchesses Maria and Anastasia.”

“If Olga and Tatiana were the ‘Big Pair’, then Maria and Anastasia must have been the ‘Little Pair’?” she guesses.

Illya nods. “They were sent to Siberia with their parents, but the Bolsheviks kept them in different quarters. If the Czar and the Czarina followed the Bolsheviks’ orders without causing any trouble, they were allowed to see their younger daughters as a reward. The girls were executed a few weeks after their parents, along with their aunt and a few other loyal servants. Yeliseyev, the officer in command of the operation, reported that he’d originally wanted to avoid cruelty and make it as quick and pain-free as possible, but his men had gotten drunk on the job and botched it. The Grand Duchesses had managed to sew jewelry and precious stones into their clothes. The jewels acted like a bulletproof vest. It… apparently, it took a long time to make sure they were all dead.”

“And the boy?” she asks. “What happened to him?”

“That’s where things get  _ interesting _ ,” Illya says. “If you want to use that expression. The Czarevich managed to evade capture by the Bolsheviks. Of course, a seven-year-old can’t do that on his own - he was being strung along by one of his bodyguards, Fyodor Petrovich Dyuzhenkov, and his personal tutor, an Englishman called Alexander Waverly.”

“I’ve actually met Waverly once,” Napoleon throws in. “It was in Berlin, nearly ten years ago now.”

“He’s still alive?” Gaby asks, raising an eyebrow. “How did he get out?”

“At the time, Waverly told me that he and Dyuzhenkov split up,” Napoleon says. “Dyuzhenkov was captured by Red Army forces, Waverly, on the other hand, managed to reach the White Army lines and escape to China, where he picked up a nasty opium habit. From China, he traveled to British India and on to Europe.”

“And the boy?”

“Waverly has written a book about his life at the Russian court and his escape. Allegedly, he and Dyuzhenkov left the boy with ‘trustworthy people’. He’s supposed to be living somewhere in the Soviet Union under a fake name. Of course, Waverly can’t tell anyone the name, because that would compromise the boy’s safety.”

Illya rolls his eyes. “Very likely,” he scoffs. “Anyway, Dyuzhenkov told a version a bit closer to the truth when we interrogated him. I can assure you, the Cheka interrogation methods used on Dyuzhenkov were more effective than whatever the Romanovs in exile chose to do to Waverly,” Illya says, pronouncing the name ‘Waverly’ as though it’s something disgusting. “Dyuzhenkov told our people the Czarevich fell seriously ill when they were on the run. They couldn’t do anything for him, his condition worsened, and the boy eventually died. They buried him outside of the village in which they’d been hiding at the time. Soon after that, they got in a dispute and split up.”

Gaby’s brows knit together. “I can see where Waverly’s coming from,” she says. “If I depended on the charity of the exiled Romanovs, I wouldn’t admit that the heir to the throne died on me either.”

“I already told you,” Illya begins, gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles appear white. “My first major mission as an OGPU agent was to locate the graves of the Imperial Family. We went to the village Dyuzhenkov had named, found the spot he had described and started to dig. We found the skeleton of a little boy. His clothes had rotted away by now, but we found that he’d also had jewels concealed in his clothes, similar to the ones found in Maria’s and Anastasia’s clothes.”

“So, Waverly lied and Dyuzhenkov told the truth?” Napoleon asks.

“Well, not entirely. There was a little… surprise,” Illya says. “I don’t know if the Czarevich was ill or not, but that boy in the grave didn’t die of any illness. If he was sick, he didn’t die quickly enough for Waverly and Dyuzhenkov.”

“What do you mean?” Gaby whispers.

Illya gives her a grim look. “There was a bullet hole in his skull, right in the middle of his forehead.”

Gaby’s eyes widen and her gaze follows Illya’s finger, tapping on the forehead of the little boy in the photograph.

“I… the way Waverly spoke of the Czarevich… he didn’t seem like the type of man to shoot a child in cold blood, much less a child he was supposed to protect,” Napoleon mumbles. “Peril, are you sure—”

“I know what a bullet hole looks like,” Illya cuts in. “They shot the Czarevich.”

Napoleon swallows, Gaby can see his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“Alright,” Gaby says. “But we don’t have to meet with Waverly, right?”

“Actually,” Napoleon begins, “We do. He’s been brought on to examine other pretenders in the past, so we'll likely have to meet with him before we’re allowed to meet with any of the Romanovs.” He glances at Illya. “If Peril doesn’t break Waverly’s face first.”

Illya puts the photograph away and takes some deep breaths.

“If the Bolsheviks had gotten hold of the Czarevich, he would have died all the same,” Gaby says quietly, in an attempt to calm Illya down.

“I don’t care about the  _ boy _ ,” Illya spits. “Their job was to protect the heir to the throne. Waverly and Dyuzhenkov did the opposite by killing him to save their own skins. Then Waverly has the guts to lie about it so the Romanovs in exile are going to support him. He spreads idiotic rumors about the Czarevich being alive, while he knows what actually happened to the boy. That’s disgusting.”

“I can’t wait for you to tell him that in person,” Napoleon says. “When I met him, Waverly seemed a bit full of himself and it never hurt anyone to be taken down a notch.”

“Speaking from experience,  _ Cowboy _ ?” Gaby asks, laughing up her sleeve when Napoleon narrows his eyes, trying to think of a snappy reply in kind. “I want to know one thing,” she continues in a more serious tone, looking at Illya. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but… your adoptive father is the head of the OPGU. You’re at the top of the food chain in the system. Are you sure you want to defect and give it all up? I mean, all it takes is a phone call and you have your own personal driver at your disposal. Do you know how many people would kill for such privileges?”

“I owe my ‘privileges’ to Oleg,” Illya replies with clenched teeth. His fingers have started to twitch involuntarily. “But Oleg won’t be around forever. When that happens, it’s going to become very difficult for someone with my background.”

Gaby’s lips twitch into a cruel grin. “A father who died in the Gulag, you mean?” she asks, sounding a lot more embittered than she intended.

“Not only that,” Illya mutters.

Napoleon leans forward, reaching for Illya’s twitching finger. He covers Illya’s hands with his own.

(Illya’s hands look so absurdly large, Gaby thinks, like they’re not good for anything besides hurting others, tearing them apart. She wonders if that’s what the OGPU saw in Illya, too.)

“Peril? What are you talking about?” Napoleon asks.

“My parents adopted me when I was a child,” Illya confesses. “I don’t remember too much… but I remember glimpses of the palace and I remember knowing  _ them _ ,” he says, pointing to the photographs of the Imperial Family. “My mother said my real parents were courtiers who didn’t manage to flee in time.”

“Oleg doesn’t know, does he?” Napoleon asks so quietly, his voice is almost inaudible.

“Do I look like I have a death wish?” Illya hisses.

Napoleon squeezes Illya’s hands. “Sorry.”

“Do you know who your parents were?” Gaby asks.

“Apparently, my real father was a baron and acted as an advisor to the Czar,” Illya says with a shrug. “That’s all my adoptive mother told me. I don’t remember… I’d hurt my head quite badly when they took me in, that’s where I got the scar.” He points to an old scar on his temple, curling around his eye socket. “My mother used to think that’s why I remember so little. I only recall some small details, like the French tutor’s awful goatee or being scolded for not wanting to sit still during a wedding. It’s all just… moments that don’t make sense. I’ve tried to forget all about it, to be honest. In this country, having such memories is enough to get you killed.”

Napoleon opens his mouth, but closes it again, without having uttered a single word. For all Gaby knows, it might be the first time he’s lost for words.

“I understand how you feel,” she says.

Illya blinks. “Really?” he mumbles. “Do you?”

She squares her shoulders. “My mother’s maiden name was ‘von Trulsch’, that’s a noble family from Prussia,” she says. “And my father was Udo Teller. You might have heard of him, Illya. He was famous for designing weapons for the Czar. He worked for the White Army during the Civil War until he was captured by the Bolsheviks. I’m not sure what they did to him, but to be perfectly honest, I don’t want to know.”

“Then Kuznetsova is a pseudonym?” Napoleon asks.

“My mother thought it would be inconspicuous,” Gaby replies. “In a way, she was right. The Bolsheviks didn’t get to her. The Spanish flu did.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Napoleon says.

“Anyway, Illya’s not the only one with a secret in our group,” she says. “I have just as many compromising ties to the old regime. If anyone ever found out—"

“It would mean Gulag,” Illya completes her sentence with a grim expression. “At best.”

Napoleon’s gaze keeps shifting from Gaby to Illya and back again. “That changes a lot, doesn’t it?” he mutters. “If Gaby doesn’t convince the Romanovs that she’s Grand Duchess Maria, then the two of you have  _ genuine  _ connections to noble families.”

Gaby and Illya share a doubtful look. If anything,  _ Napoleon  _ looks like he could be aristocratic, with all the superiority complexes and delusions of grandeur that come with it.

“I think you’re making a mistake,” she says cautiously. “Illya doesn’t even know which noble family he might belong to and the von Trulsch family is far from rich and powerful. My mother described her childhood as very simple and when she married my father, she married ‘up’. If you think there is an inheritance I could claim, then I’m sorry. No, there isn’t.”

“Alright, but there’s got to be a way to find out more about Illya’s ancestry,” Napoleon throws in. “You know what, Peril, while we’re working on turning Gaby into a decent Grand Duchess, we’ll also look for a list of all the courtiers. Let’s see if any of them had sons around the time you were born, what do you say?”

Illya crosses his arms in front of his chest. “You think that’s going to  _ work _ ?”

“It’s worth a try,” he says. “I mean, isn’t that what this whole project is all about? Family reunification?”

“Cowboy, I can’t think of a single Russian noble family that’s going to be delighted to find out that one of them worked for the OGPU,” Illya says drily.

He’s right, Gaby thinks. Illya looks less like an aristocrat and more like a Bolshevik propaganda poster come to life. She imagines him at court, a society consisting of nothing but intrigues and backstabbing, and can’t help but think that Illya would feel extremely out of place.

With a start, she realizes it wouldn’t make much of a difference - being related to the head of the OGPU brings the perks and privileges that being a baron’s son would have entailed under the old regime.

“Great,” Gaby says. “Now we know both Illya and I need to hide our incriminating ancestry, so we won’t end up in prison. Can we please get on with planning our  _ escape _ ?”

* * *

The following months are filled with clandestine meetings and preparation.

Gaby’s nights consist of her studying family trees and learning as many seemingly mundane facts about the Romanovs as possible. It keeps her occupied to such a degree, she hardly has time to lament the fact that she can’t dance on a professional level anymore.

During the days, it’s different. She’s able to walk again, unaided by the crutches, but her foot is never going to be the same. The doctor has told her as much. She tried dancing, pushing through the pain with clenched teeth and will of iron like she’s been taught to do.

And yet, for all the agony she’s put herself through, the result had not been satisfying. All she’d gotten were pitiful looks from her colleagues.

She ought to be grateful they didn’t dismiss her outright and gave her work teaching the young children instead. At least she still had enough skill left for that.

It doesn’t matter, she tells herself, whenever she misses the stage and the performances. She’s preparing to play the role of her life, that of Grand Duchess Maria.

Throughout many nocturnal meetings, they worked out a believable cover story: Gabriella Kuznetsova had not survived the revolution and Grand Duchess Maria had taken her place as a ballet dancer. Maria displayed a natural aptitude for dance, which made up for the years of practice she was missing.

“Wouldn’t it be suspicious?” Gaby had asked at the time. “A Grand Duchess living as a principal dancer in Moscow? Wouldn’t it make more sense if I had chosen to hide in a tiny village somewhere in Siberia, far away from the… authorities?”

She wanted to say ‘far away from the OGPU’ but a glance at Illya was enough to make her bite her tongue instead.

“You see, ‘a tiny village somewhere in Siberia’ is exactly what everyone would expect. We need to take those expectations and subvert them,” Napoleon says. “ _ Nobody _ would ever suspect a child of the Czar could be hidden in plain sight.”

“Alright, let’s say they buy it. How do we explain that, I, the Grand Duchess, am traveling with two men who aren’t exactly what you’d call loyal to the Czarist cause?” she asks before a more frightening topic occurs to her. “And if they acknowledge me as Grand Duchess Maria, do I have to be… Head of House? I don’t have to get married to some Grand Duke or Prince to carry on the dynastic line, do I?”

“You probably don’t have to get married if you absolutely don’t want to,” Napoleon says with a shrug. “But I’m sure lots of aristocratic men are going to come out of the woodwork, intent on marrying you.”

“To marry a Grand Duchess who’s the heir to a lost throne and a non-existent empire,” Gaby scoffs. “I’m sure I’ll be highly sought-after.”

“None of them are going to think they could reclaim the throne by marrying you,” Illya says in a much softer tone of voice than Gaby would have expected. “Grand Duke Kirill, a distant relative of the Czar, has become the Head of House and he declared himself Emperor in Exile. He wouldn’t see you as a threat to his position, because you’re a woman. According to the Rules of the House of Romanov, women can’t inherit the throne.”

“Typical,” Gaby says, rolling her eyes. 

“Men who’d propose to you wouldn’t be after the throne,” Napoleon points out. “They’d certainly be after the money.”

“The money?” Gaby asks, lifting one of her thin eyebrows. “I thought all the Romanov’s possessions were confiscated during the revolution. Enlighten me?”

“A lot of possessions were lost, that’s true. However, the Czar managed to save a substantial part of his fortune. He set up five accounts at the Bank of England, one for each of his children. Each one of those accounts contains five million gold rubles. If you’re acknowledged as the only surviving child, you’d be the only heir. All five bank accounts would pass into your possession.”

“Twenty-five million gold rubles,” she mumbles, trying to conceptualize having such a large amount of money. Fabulously wealthy doesn’t  _ begin _ to cover it.

“Keep in mind, the man who marries you gets to seize control of that fortune,” Illya adds. “Better choose wisely.”

Gaby grins and crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Men wanting to be with me because of the money is such a new experience for me,” she teases. “It’s not like that’s what you are doing, too.”

“Excuse me,  _ we’re _ not trying to steal your heritage away,” Napoleon defends himself. “We just want the reward money.”

“I appreciate the honesty,” Gaby replies. “But you still haven’t answered my question from earlier. How do we explain that Grand Duchess Maria is traveling with a former art thief and an OGPU agent? You’ll have to admit, it’s kind of suspicious.”

“We’ll think of something,” Illya says. “We can say I’m a traitor, it’s not too far from the truth anyway,” he adds, grimacing as though he’s chewing on a slice of lemon. “And Cowboy has a talent for sniffing out treasure wherever he goes. If anyone would be able to find a Romanov hidden away in Moscow, it would be him.”

“And if they want me to marry someone—,” Gaby begins again, doubtfully.

“Then you can say you have two former agents at your beck and call,” Napoleon suggests. “To be fair, just saying you have Illya at your beck and call will make most guys chicken out. He can be rather intimidating, as you may have noticed.”

A few months ago, she would have scoffed at the notion of her ‘having’ either of the men at her beck and call, as Napoleon so delicately put it. Now, though, their plan has slowly shifted to accommodate for the possibility of her being acknowledged as the Grand Duchess and Napoleon and Illya  _ not _ abandoning her.

“You’re going to need allies once you’re living among the Romanovs,” Illya had said one evening. “Someone to help you settle in. Someone to keep people from even  _ thinking _ about using you.”

“Someone to scare people away, you mean?” Gaby corrected him. “Someone like you?”

Illya shares a meaningful look with Napoleon.

“Don’t act like we wouldn’t fit the bill,” Napoleon says.

“Where exactly are you going with this?” she asks, curious to find out whether they are thinking along the same lines as she does. “What do you  _ want _ them to think? That you’re my friends, maybe? My protectors? Just going to let you know, if you both keep looking at me like that, they can only come to one conclusion.”

“What conclusion would that be?” Illya asks, leaning back in his chair, and feigning carelessness in a way Gaby is almost sure he picked up from Napoleon.

“The most logical one, of course,” Gaby says. “Or the most clichéd one, I suppose. You’re both in love with me and vying for my affection. Little do they know that, behind the scenes, you’re already devoted to each other. So, I guess I’m out of luck.”

She leans forward, resting her forearms on the table and is amused by the way they always arranged themselves during their meetings, wherever they take place.

Gaby’s always in the middle, the Grand Duchess, the most important puzzle piece of the plan. Illya and Napoleon always take their places to her right and her left, respectively. When had they stopped putting conscious thought into their decisions and just sat down like that because it felt right?

Perhaps Napoleon wasn’t entirely wrong when he said they’re at Gaby’s beck and call.

Napoleon, she thinks, has had years to build up layers and layers around himself, wearing them as well as his bespoke suits. From time to time, Gaby gets the urge to tear through those layers and find whatever is underneath. Has Illya felt the same when he first met the enigma that is Napoleon Solo?

_ Illya _ …

Where Napoleon is smooth talk, easy compliments, and double-entendres, Illya is rough and intense, with the promise of hidden depths she desperately wants to explore. In turn, is that what drew Napoleon to Illya? The American likes a certain amount of danger and insanity – a relationship with Illya is bound to provide both in spades.

At the very beginning of their ‘project’, Gaby had felt jealous of the way Napoleon and Illya looked at each other. Even the quickest glances had contained desire, passion and shared secrets.

In the meantime, some things had changed. For example, the way both men have started to look at her?

Gaby  _ likes  _ it.

“I wouldn’t agree,” Illya says.

“Huh?”

“When you said you’re out of luck. I wouldn’t agree,” he says.

“The good thing about living under socialism is that, by necessity, you get really good at sharing,” Napoleon says.

He’s not even  _ trying _ to sound like his words could possibly be interpreted as innocent.

“You two talked about this behind my back already?” she asks, failing miserably at hiding her smile. “I’d pretend to be offended if it weren’t  _ exactly _ what I wanted.”

* * *

Months of preparation later, Gaby’s head is brimming with information about the Imperial family. If the actual Grand Duchess Maria were still alive, Gaby doubts she’d be better prepared.

She knows her own cover story by heart and helped Illya and Napoleon work on theirs. According to the cover story, they’d come up with, Illya was a sleeper agent for the monarchist cause and had been tasked with aiding Grand Duchess Maria in her escape. Napoleon had been recruited to support them in their case.

Napoleon had been charged with organizing fake passports and exit visas for the three of them. Technically, Illya had all the necessary contacts to secure exit visas the official way, but it would have aroused people’s suspicion. Napoleon, on the other hand, knew his way around the black market and had access to US dollars – a highly coveted resource.

“I’m hoping to get the passports and the visas the day after tomorrow,” Napoleon says absent-mindedly while checking points off a to-do list. “I’d ask for your preferences with regards to the names on the documents, but I’m afraid we’ll have to take what we can get.”

Illya is typing a report for Oleg on a typewriter that looks a little too small for the size of his hands. He’s hunched over the table in a position that has to hurt, Gaby thinks.

She is perched on a formerly dusty sofa in one of their hideouts. Over the months, they slowly dared to meet in more comfortable locations. Drafty and dirty rooms in abandoned buildings had quickly become a nuisance for both Napoleon and Gaby. They had chosen somewhat cozier spots after that, although, much to Gaby’s dismay, none of their meeting spots had ever reached the comfort and luxury of the Hotel Metropol.

She’s currently leafing through the book Waverly’s written about his time with the Imperial Family. Except for the ending, even Illya had had to concede that Waverly had stuck quite close to the truth. In Illya’s words, Waverly had only started to lie once he’d have damaged his reputation by telling the truth about the Czarevich. Gaby’s not really paying attention, she’s just turning the pages, and reads a paragraph here and there.

The book’s written in English – while speaking the language has become a lot easier for her, now that she has Napoleon to practice with, reading it still exhausts her after a while. She suppresses a yawn when the letters are starting to blur in front of her eyes.

“Hey, Cowboy,” she says. “Are you doing anything important or can you read to me?”

“Everything I do is important,” Napoleon says with a roll of his eyes. Nevertheless, he obediently stands up, takes the book from her hand and sits down next to her. Gaby curls up against him and gestures for Illya to join them.

He refuses, saying that he needs to finish his report first.

Gaby pouts and makes sure Illya sees it but relaxes once Napoleon starts reading her passages of the book.

“‘I had the impression that Emperor Nicholas II. was always father and husband first, and Emperor second’,” he reads aloud, putting on a posh accent for Gaby’s amusement.

Illya finishes his report with an exasperated sigh and joins them on the sofa. With the three of them, it’s a tight fight, but they make it work.

“Even though he would have objected to my observation, this is how I experienced it’,” Napoleon continues. “’In addition to that, he always seemed to suffer due to his physique – neither in height nor strength did he match his father. Czar Alexander III. had been a giant of a man who, after a disastrous train accident near Borki in 1888, held up the roof of an entire train carriage to keep it from collapsing, allowing his family to escape.’”

“Alexander III. sounds like he could have given you a run for your money,” Gaby says, poking Illya in the chest.

“He wouldn’t have,” Illya says, catching her hand in his and kissing her fingertips. “The Borki story is nothing but Czarist propaganda. After the revolution, it was determined that the carriage walls were strong enough to support the roof. That,” says, gesturing to Waverly’s book, “was just a lovely story they made up to make the Czar seem more human.”

“Did the Bolsheviks investigate the original train from 1888?” Napoleon asks with a smug grin. “How did they prove their version of the story is correct?”

Illya blinks. “Fine,” he grumbles at last. “You’ve got me there. Are you happy now?”

Napoleon laughs silently. “That aside, why do I have a hard time believing a monarch with absolute power would feel insecure because he’s short?”

Illya lets out an indignant snort. “So, apparently Czar Nicholas II. was the exact opposite of Petrenko,” he says. “That’s Oleg’s main rival at the OGPU, he wants his job more than anything. Five feet tall, every inch of him is pure sycophant, but I would have never noticed that he’s ever had any ego problems because of that.”

“Well, you know what they say, it’s not the size that matters,” Gaby teases them. “But what you can do with it.”

“You’ve never complained,” Napoleon counters. “And, Peril, try not to do any lasting damage to Petrenko when you deliver your report tomorrow. We can't afford to get into trouble before we leave, especially not because of some power-hungry midget.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My research notes/sources of inspiration for this chapter:
> 
>   * An eight-part documentary series about the Romanovs if you want an overview: [The Romanovs - The History of the Russian Dynasty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=USUA_1WVM8I&list=PLT2q181SVLgqLDwPJQ9TkyQfpu-pDD5-t&index=1)
>   * A two-part documentary about the four Grand Duchesses Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia: [Russia’s Lost Princesses](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VHQWpcpJVM0)
>   * A three-part documentary series about the end of the Romanov dynasty: [Last of the Czars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mYo8SEvnsrM&index=1&list=PL6oJqhiRSlplTk9UQPo2Wjja6DTLR12rN%20)
>   * An episode of the German podcast "Hoaxilla" on Rasputin (I chose not to include Rasputin in this fic, but it's still an interesting story and I love the Hoaxilla podcast, so if you know German, feel free to check it out :) [Rasputin (Episode #27)](https://www.hoaxilla.com/hoaxilla-27-rasputin/%20)
>   * The book [A People’s Tragedy. The Russian Revolution 1891-1924](https://www.amazon.co.uk/Peoples-Tragedy-Russian-Revolution-1891-1924/dp/071267327X) by Orlando Figes (I'm reading the [German translation](https://www.amazon.de/Die-Trag%C3%B6die-eines-Volkes-russischen/dp/3827008131%20), though)
>   * The book [Everyday Stalinism. Ordinary Life in Extraordinary Times: Soviet Russia in the 1930s](https://www.amazon.com/Everyday-Stalinism-Ordinary-Extraordinary-Soviet-ebook/dp/B004RTH6XY/ref=mt_kindle?_encoding=UTF8&me=%20) by Sheila Fitzpatrick
>   * The book [Everyday Life in Early Soviet Russia. Taking the Revolution Inside](https://www.amazon.com/Everyday-Life-Early-Soviet-Russia/dp/025321792X) by Christina Kiaer and Eric Naiman
>   * In this fic, Waverly is modeled after [Pierre Gilliard](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pierre_Gilliard), the French language tutor of the Czar's children. After the revolution, Pierre Gilliard wrote the memoir titled [Thirteen Years at the Russian Court. A Personal Record of the Last Years and Death of the Czar Nicholas II. and his Family](https://archive.org/stream/thirteenyearsatr00gill#page/n11/mode/2up)
>   * Two other memoirs are [The Life and Tragedy of Alexandra Feodorovna, Empress of Russia](https://archive.org/stream/lifetragedyofale00sofi#page/n9/mode/2up%20) by Baroness Sophie Buxhoeveden and [The Real Tsaritsa](https://archive.org/stream/realtsaritsa00dehnuoft#page/2/mode/2up%20) by Lili Dehn
> 



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi :) And I'm back with another chapter, hope you'll like it!

The sun has just started to rise over the roofs of Moscow. The sky is clear, and the promise of a beautiful summer day is hanging in the air.

Every single fiber of Illya Kuryakin’s body feels on edge as he mechanically moves through his morning routine in the apartment he technically shares with his adoptive father.

In truth, the apartment is only occupied by Illya and the housemaid. Oleg prefers to work overtime and ever since Illya’s mother Vasilisa succumbed to illness six years ago, he’s been sleeping at his office more often than not.

In the past, Illya has contemplated moving out and living at one of the OGPU’s dorms instead. Eventually, he always decided against it. He suspects Oleg would consider it a snub if Illya moved out and antagonizing the head of the OGPU was not a good idea, to put it mildly.

He gathers the report he’s written the night before and sets off.

The closer he gets to the OGPU headquarters at Lubyanka, the more his muscles start tensing up.

They are so close to making it out of the country, the first stage in their grand plan. Things mustn’t go wrong now.

Illya takes a few deep breaths and wills himself to relax.

Lubyanka looks as imposing as ever as he enters the building and starts to make his way up to Oleg’s office on the third floor.

Petrenko crosses his way and sneers at him like Illya is little more than the dirt under his shoes.

Illya remembers Napoleon’s words from last night. He ought to control himself, but he cannot help himself, he wants to take the groveling sycophant down a notch.

“Is there a problem, Comrade Petrenko?” he asks, acting like associating with Petrenko is beneath his dignity.

“No, not at all, Comrade Kuryakin,” Petrenko says and gets a little closer. “Only… you know, if it weren’t for Oleg Ivanovich, you would never be in a position as high as this one.”

“Being good at your job and not focusing on infighting is supposed to help your career as well,” Illya replies. “Of course, you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Petrenko scoffs and draws himself up to his full height, which fails to have an intimidating effect on Illya.

“Remember, Kuryakin,” Petrenko hisses. “You might be at the top right now, but it’s a long way down from there. I’ll enjoy seeing you go down.”

“If that ever happens,” Illya begins, “I’ll remember to think of you, Comrade Petrenko.”

Before he continues up the stairs to Oleg’s office, he can’t fight the impulse any longer, so he reaches out and pats Petrenko’s head a couple of times.

Predictably, Petrenko huffs and shakes off Illya’s hand. Fuming, he goes on his way and Illya watches the short man retreat to his office.

Shaking his head, Illya continues in the direction of his adoptive father’s office. He greets Darya, Oleg’s secretary.

She’s a stern woman in her mid-thirties with a soft spot for Illya. Usually, he would stop to chat with her, ask about her family and if there is anything Oleg would be able to do for them. Today, though, she says he can pass through immediately since Oleg doesn’t have any visitors at the moment.

“And even if he did, you know he would always make time for you,” Darya says matter-of-factly.

Illya’s not so sure. Nevertheless, he knocks on the door and steps into the office.

Oleg looks up from the document he’s been reading. He has keen dark eyes, hidden under a pair of strong, bushy eyebrows. A pince-nez is perched on his crooked nose - broken during the Civil War, as Oleg likes to tell, but the result of a schoolyard fistfight. His hands are streaked with veins and his short fingernails are yellow, courtesy of his cigarette habit.

He still wears his wedding ring.

Oleg takes one last drag of the cigarette he’s been smoking and stubs it out in the already overflowing ashtray on his desk. The air is, as always, thick with smoke and Illya gets the urge to open a window to let fresh air into the room.

Except for the ashtray, the office looks painfully orderly, a virtue Oleg Kuryakin instilled in his adoptive son as well. The files on his desk are in order, sorted according to importance, but the centerpiece of the desk is a collection of framed photographs.

One of them is of Nina, Oleg’s first wife, who died young giving birth to their first and only child who hadn’t lived much longer than the mother. Another photograph shows Oleg with his parents and siblings, yet another photograph is of Illya himself when he had just joined the OGPU. The fourth and last photograph shows a round-faced blond woman with large eyes and a kind expression - Illya’s late mother, Vasilisa Kuryakina.

“Good morning,” Illya says awkwardly, glancing at the document on Oleg’s desk.

It’s a list with names and someone had carelessly scrawled ‘5000 more’ at the bottom. Illya wonders whether the people whose names are on the list are going to be executed or ‘only’ deported to the Gulag.

“Here’s my weekly report,” he says, handing it to Oleg, who puts it on the pile of documents farthest away from him.

Illya guesses it’s the pile with the least important documents. Should he feel offended?

“Thank you,” Oleg says off-handedly. “Please take a seat. There’s something we need to talk about.”

“And we can’t talk about it at home?” Illya asks, obeying Oleg’s order by sitting down.

“Indeed, no,” Oleg confirms. “We can’t talk about it at home. The maid could hear. Anyone could hear. My office, on the other hand, is soundproof.”

Illya raises his eyebrows, trying to appear polite and surprised at the same time. “Are you talking about a mission?”

Oleg shrugs. “If you want to call it that.”

“What do you need me to do?”

Oleg gives him a strange look. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with a certain Gabriella Kuznetsova,” he begins.

Illya’s hands start to tremble. “So?” he asks.

Denying would only make it worse. He’s desperately trying to think of ways to warn Gaby, but maybe it’s already too late.

Agents could already be on their way to her dorm, maybe she’s already been arrested, and if that’s the case, it was all _his fault_... 

“I have to admit, I feel _slightly_ offended that you never introduced me to Gabriella,” Oleg says, smiling faintly. “Have you ever thought of asking her to become your wife?” 

Illya blinks in surprise. “I beg your pardon?” he forces out.

“I’ll be honest with you, Illya. The terror has gotten out of hand and Stalin will be looking for a scapegoat sooner rather than later.”

“You think the scapegoat is going to be you.”

“I _know_ it’s going to be me,” Oleg admits, lighting another cigarette. “And _you_ know it’s never just the figurehead who gets arrested. The families are in for it, too.”

“Usually,” Illya points out. “Unless they have the right connections.”

He still remembers when his father, Nikolay Zhukov, had been sent to the Gulag. Oleg had shown up at their doorstep not twenty-four hours afterward. He and Illya’s mother had had a long conversation – Illya had been banned from the room and they had spoken so quietly that he hadn’t understood a single word when he’d tried to listen in.

After more than two hours, his mother and Oleg had emerged again. His mother’s eyes had been red-rimmed, her cheeks wet with tears, but her arm had been linked with Oleg’s. She’d announced that Illya would soon have a new stepfather.

“Petrenko will most probably take my place,” Oleg says. “No matter how much you tried to ingratiate yourself with him, he would enjoy seeing you tortured and shipped off to the Gulag.”

Illya snorts. He can’t argue with that. “But what does getting married to Gaby have to do with it?” he asks. “First of all, I don’t know if she _wants_ to marry me—"

“You’re a good-looking young man,” Oleg replies sarcastically. “You have a good job and a good name. Any woman ought to be happy to have you, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Right,” Illya says slowly, in an even more cynical tone than Oleg. “Only, that good name is likely going to turn into a millstone around my neck.”

Oleg takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Let me explain: When I proposed to your mother, I was in the same position as Petrenko is right now. I was slated for becoming head of the OGPU. Helping you and your mother, it was a large risk, but I took it. Nikolay Zhukov, your father, saved my life during the Civil War, and while my influence was not strong enough to save him from being deported, I could at least protect his family. The strongest protection I could offer was my name and sham marriages aren’t _uncommon_.”

“At the time that might have worked,” Illya throws in. “But if I married Gaby now, it would be like signing her death sentence.”

“I wasn’t done,” Oleg reprimands him. “You marry her, and I’ll organize a honeymoon for you in a European country. Of course, people are going to assume it’s a sham marriage and that it’s the cover for a mission, but they won’t ask questions until it’s too late and you’re safe abroad.”

“Do we really have to get married? Can’t I just say she’s my fiancée?”

“No couple goes on an _engagement_ trip,” Oleg objects impatiently. “It has to be a marriage, but don’t worry, it’ll just be a small ceremony.”

“I need to ask Gaby,” Illya stalls. “I can’t decide without talking to her first. And what about… the other mission?” he trails off, gesturing to the report he’s written on his progress with Napoleon. “Is it no longer important?”

Oleg looks at him unfazed. “Illya, you’re a good agent. One of our best, and I don’t say that because you’re my son, but because I mean it. A good agent would have already convinced Solo to work for our side, or, failing that, he would have eliminated the target long ago. This hasn’t been about the mission for a long time. I’m convinced Napoleon can take care of himself and join you, wherever it is that you’re going.”

Illya feels the heat rush into his cheeks and silently curses his own body for betraying him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?” Oleg asks. “Come on, Illya. If I had a problem with it, I would have put an end to it long ago.”

“And risk that it might become a nail in your coffin in the future? I doubt it,” Illya snaps in a moment of defiance. “Why do you want me to escape? Why are you doing any of this, Oleg? You cared about my mother, but she’s dead. I’m not even your son, you don’t have to care about _me_.”

Oleg recoils, looking as though Illya just struck him in the face. He takes a deep breath before he lights a cigarette with trembling hands.

“Is it so hard to believe that I’ve started to care about you long ago?” Oleg asks. “That I’ve come to think of you as my son, no matter what your birth certificate says? I made a promise to your mother – do you know that? I promised her I would keep you safe for as long as I could.”

Illya mumbles an apology, without managing to meet Oleg’s gaze.

“I promised I would keep you safe,” his adoptive father continues. “Soon, I won’t be able to do that anymore. All I wanted to do was to offer you a way to escape. Whether you take it or leave it is entirely up to you. Although, you should remember there are more lives than your own on the line. If I know about your… acquaintance with Napoleon Solo and Gabriella Kuznetsova, soon enough, Petrenko will know, too.”

* * *

“We need to… what?!”

During his talk with Oleg, Illya had reluctantly agreed that his adoptive father’s plan was a good one. It would give Gaby and him a valid excuse to leave the country.

However, getting Gaby and Napoleon to agree to it? Illya braces himself for long talks, during which he’ll have to do lots of convincing.

“You know, I think Oleg is right,” Napoleon says, much to Illya’s surprise. “If you get married, it would make our story more believable. It also gives me a reason to leave Russia even though I’m technically not supposed to. I can justify it by saying you’re up to something and pursuing you is a necessity.”

“Still,” Gaby insists. “I never thought I’d get _married_.”

She starts to leaf through their sizable pile of research notes, which they’ve compiled over the months.

“What are you looking for?” Illya asks.

“Well, for our plan to work, I have to be a Grand Duchess, right?” she says without looking up from her task. “I thought there was a rule somewhere which stipulates that a member of the Imperial Family needs to marry someone befitting their rank. If they don’t, they could get disowned. In turn, that would mean I can’t inherit the 25 million gold rubles you’ve promised me. They probably aren’t going to give you the reward money, either, if they find out that I’m married to one of you.”

Illya blinks and has just enough time to wonder how Gaby doesn’t seem to be objecting to marrying him per se, but rather to the consequences it could have for their plan.

“Good thinking, Gaby,” he mumbles. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“That’s not entirely correct,” Napoleon says. “I don’t believe we have anything to worry about. This rule only applied to male heirs because it affected their place in the line of succession. The Czar’s sisters, the Grand Duchesses Xenia and Olga are both married to men _not_ befitting their rank in their second marriages. In addition to that, a civil marriage might even be considered void according to the house rules.”

“So, what do we do?” Gaby asks. “Should we go ahead with Oleg’s plan? Can we be sure it’s not a trap?”

Illya shrugs. With the OGPU’s standards of secret-mongering and paranoia, you couldn’t be sure about anything.

“I think you should get married,” Napoleon says. “If we, or rather, if _you_ don’t do as he says… I don’t know, but _I_ wouldn’t want to offend the head of the OGPU.”

“Wonderful,” Gaby says cynically. “I can’t dance anymore and now I’m about to marry into the party elite. My ex-colleagues at the ballet are going to have a field day.”

“Are you sure, Gaby?” Illya asks. “Oleg insisted I convince you, but if you don’t want to, then I’ll—"

“No,” she cuts him off and squares her shoulders. “It’s going to be fine. We can do this. It’s just a wedding, after all.”

“I’m a little disappointed I can’t be your best man,” Napoleon says, stifling a laugh. “That wedding ceremony is something I would have liked to see. So, Peril, Gaby, looks like you’re engaged. Congratulations, I guess?”

* * *

In the aftermath of their decision to get married, Illya had given Gaby his mother’s old engagement ring.

Over the course of one extremely tense and awkward afternoon tea, he’d introduced her to Oleg. Thankfully, Gaby’s only relatives were living in Germany, so there was no need for another one of those nerve-wracking ceremonies. Once had been bad enough.

The wedding has been organized extraordinarily quickly. Oleg used his influence to ‘convince’ the officials to speed up the process. Illya doesn’t know what Oleg told the cadres at the Wedding Palace, but he’s quite sure he doesn’t _want_ to know.

Just two weeks after the initial talk in Oleg’s office, Gaby and Illya find themselves at the Wedding Palace.

A crackling rendition of one of Tchaikovsky’s piano concerts is playing on a gramophone. It’s supposed to put the happy couple in a festive mood, but it does absolutely nothing to ease their nerves.

Illya reaches out and takes hold of Gaby’s hand – her palm is sweaty and she’s trembling. Despite her nerves, she’s putting on a brave face. He squeezes her hand once to let her know that he’s right here beside here. He won’t let anything happen to her.

"Dear Illya and Gabriella!” the registrar commences his speech. His voice is reedy, grating, and his delivery has a hypnogogic effect, rather than a rousing one. "Today, the day of the formation of your family, we hope that you will live your life together well, that you will live it in such a fashion that you, Illya, and you, Gabriella, and your future children will always be faithful to the support of Soviet power. You love one another. And love is a flame.”

With a start, Illya realizes it’s verbatim the same speech a different registrar had given twelve years ago, at the wedding of Oleg and Illya’s mother. He doesn’t know whether there are just a few acceptable pre-written wedding speeches or if Oleg orchestrated the whole thing.

“Let there not be in your life a destructive fire,” the registrar drones on. “Let love be a guiding star for you, a bonfire which warms the wayfarer. Support this life-giving flame by respect and care for one another."

After what feels like ages, the registrar finally asks Illya whether he wants to take Gaby as his wife.

“I do,” he says.

They’d contemplated whether they wanted vows but had decided against it. It was a sham marriage, after all, and any ceremony with vows should have rightfully included Napoleon.

The registrar turns to Gaby. “And do you, Gabriella, take Illya as your lawfully wedded husband?”

Gaby’s voice shakes slightly as she answers: “Yes, I do.”

They exchange rings and kiss – it’s the most uncomfortable kiss they ever shared, by far. Illya can only imagine how awkward and wooden it must appear to the onlookers.

Not that there are many onlookers in the first place. It’s just Oleg, a few colleagues from the OGPU and Gaby’s friends, who aren’t very good at hiding their dislike of Illya.

A lesser man – Petrenko comes to mind – would certainly have taken offense at their pinched expressions and badly-disguised sneers.

Gaby and Illya put their signatures on the dotted line.

Now, it’s official, they’re married.

Illya pretends not to notice the hostile looks on the faces of Gaby’s friends as they mingle during the reception. He glances at his watch and is frustrated to discover that the wedding ceremony had taken less time than he thought. As time-efficient and streamlined weddings have become since the revolution, they’re going to have to stay for at least another thirty minutes before they can make their excuses and leave.

To amuse himself, Illya imagines what Napoleon would say if he could see them now. He’d probably tell them to relax and smile. Truth be told, he’d be right. At present, the only thing that distinguished Gaby and Illya from two members of a funeral party was the color of Gaby’s dress. It’s not even a proper wedding dress – at such short notice, they hadn’t managed to get hold of one. Gaby is wearing a slightly altered theater costume instead.

(Not that Illya minds – in his opinion, Gaby could wear a potato sack dress and still look ravishing. Granted, his opinion is probably not the most objective one.)

Oleg gestures for them to come over to him.

Gaby tucks herself against Illya’s side, shooting worried glances at the little delegation of bodyguards and colleagues Oleg has brought with him.

Illya espouses a certain amount of suspicion; it’s a crucial survival skill in tumultuous times like these. However, Gaby’s eyes are wide, and her fingernails dig into the skin of Illya’s arm, through the fabric of his wedding suit.

‘Respect and care for another,’ the registrar had said. It’s a fake wedding, but Illya has every intention of respecting Gaby and taking care of her. He wants to pull her into his arms and tell her everything would be alright, but he can’t, not in front of all these people who are watching their every move.

“Illya, Gabriella, as the registrar has already said, today, we celebrate your union,” Oleg begins. “Seeing love bloom between two young people such as you, that’s one of the most beautiful things in the world. I’m certain, very soon, your family is already going to consist of more than just the two of you.” Oleg winks at them, raising his champagne glass.

Illya blinks, completely astonished that Oleg dared to mention Napoleon…

The OGPU delegation cheers obediently, Gaby’s friends do so reluctantly, and he realizes that everyone else interpreted it as an allusion Gaby being pregnant.

Oleg winks at him, raising his champagne glass.

Sly dog.

Gaby goes on her tiptoes to kiss Illya on the cheek. “Let’s get away from here,” she whispers into his ear before pulling away.

Illya hums an agreement and loudly announces he feels unwell. He’s terribly sorry, but Gaby understands.

When they leave the Wedding Palace, Illya feels strangely numb and a little depressed. Do all newly-weds experience the same emotions? Is this what it feels like to switch from one stage of life to another?

They’re descending the front steps. For Gaby’s comfort, Illya is mindful to walk slower than he usually would. Her legs aren’t nearly as long as his, she can’t keep up with his walking speed.

“Hey, wait a minute!” a male voice rings out behind them.

Illya spins round on his heel, painfully aware of the handgun hidden underneath the jacket of his wedding suit. Are the OGPU agents going to detain them? Has their plot been discovered? Are they going to spend their wedding night in a torture chamber?

To his mild surprise and immense relief, the man who called after them is not with the OGPU.

A small group of Gaby’s former colleagues from the ballet have followed them outside.

“What do you want?” she asks, biting her bottom lip. “I have to go—”

One of the women walks up to them. She’s about Gaby’s height, nothing but skin and bones. From afar, she looks dainty and cute with her blond hair and button nose. The closer she gets, however, the set of her jaw and the look in her eyes betrays resolve, determination, and confidence.

The blond dancer pulls Gaby aside, whispering something in her ear.

One of the male dancers walks up to Illya, squaring his shoulders in an attempt to puff out his chest. The effect is lost on Illya – a dancer’s body is incredibly strong, yes, but it’s built for performing grace and elegance, not for combat.

“Look,” the dancer says. “We’re… suspicious of you, to say the least. Gabriella wanted to marry you, and that’s her decision. However, if you treat her badly, then…,” he trails off.

“Then what?” Illya asks. “You need to work on your threats. That aside, I can probably guess what you’re thinking. But I can reassure you – I’m not a brute.”

“How do we know you’re trustworthy?”

“Unfortunately, you don’t,” Illya replies. “That’s the trust part, you know? You trust someone and hope for the best.”

“That’s not enough!”

“No, it’s not,” Illya says. “But it’s all that I can offer. For the record, I intend to treat Gaby like—" He catches himself before he can say ‘like a princess’. “I’ll treat her like she deserves to be treated,” he finishes lamely.

A moment later he realizes that it doesn’t sound reassuring at all.

“Darling?” Gaby asks, looping her arm through his. “Are you ready to go?”

He nods and gives the dancers a final wary look before they get into the waiting car. It’s the usual Packard, as always driven by Misha.

The car pulls away from the Wedding Palace.

“What did she want from you?” Illya mutters.

“She told me that getting married was a mistake,” Gaby whispers, tightly gripping Illya’s arm. “In addition to a few snide remarks, she said I shouldn’t be surprised if our marriage didn’t last long. A reliable source told her to expect changes in the OGPU’s command structure.”

“Who’s the reliable source?”

“She’s having an affair with a member of the Central Committee,” Gaby says with a shrug. “I don’t know which one, though.”

“Typical,” Illya comments. “I’m sorry this happened,” he adds, kissing Gaby’s temple. “Let’s forget about it. We’ve got our ‘honeymoon’ to look forward to.”

* * *

They spend their wedding night at Illya’s apartment, worried and anxious. There’s no time for romance, not when everything hinges on tomorrow. Is the crucial first step of their plan going to be successful? Will they be able to leave the country?

If anyone saw through their scheme and prevented them from leaving… Illya has no idea what he would do. With lots of luck, he’d end up in Siberia, but if Petrenko got to decide, Illya would never be so fortunate.

To distract himself, he asks Gaby if she wants him to quiz her on the Romanov family tree.

She gives him a dirty look. “I know it by heart. I can recite all the aunts and uncles, cousins and nephews in my sleep,” she says. “I’ve got a much more important question: Do you think Napoleon is alright?”

The three of them are supposed to take the same train tomorrow. Napoleon used all his black-market contacts to get himself an exit visa and a train ticket. However, they have no idea if everything is still going according to plan – they have no means of contacting Napoleon until they get on the train and leave the country.

Illya gets the urge to pray for a safe journey but quickly dismisses the impulse as backward and childish.

“I hope so,” Illya replies. “Oleg didn’t say it outright, but he hinted that he knows Napoleon is involved more than we’re letting on,” Illya replies.

They’re sitting at the kitchen table, both still in their wedding attire. Gaby is anxiously twisting the ring on her finger.

“Did we pack everything we need?” she asks.

They went over their list time and time again. Realistically speaking, the odds they have forgotten anything important are slim to none. Despite knowing that, they go through their suitcases again, unpacking all their belongings and repacking them.

Anything to kill time.

During their ride to the train station in the morning, Gaby keeps patting her coat every few seconds to check that her passport containing the exit visa is still there.

Illya’s muscles are tense, his nerves are on edge, as though he’s about to get into a physical fight. The sensation intensifies, the adrenaline is rushing into his veins as they’re approaching the train.

He’s breathing heavy, as though he’s been sprinting.

They’re going to do this, he realizes. If everything goes right, this will be his last day in Russia…

Gaby tugs at his coat sleeve to get Illya’s attention and subtly cocks her head, to a point further down the platform.

Illya follows her gaze and spots Napoleon, making his way through the crowd.

“It’ll be alright,” Gaby whispers, taking Illya’s hand into hers.

He breathes easier, knowing the two people who matter most to him are both going to leave this country with him.

Illya and Gaby look for seats on the train. They want to sit close to Napoleon, but not too close. They mustn’t appear as though they’re on overly friendly terms with each other – sitting next to each other is only going to be possible once they’ve crossed the border.

The train pulls out of the station, and Illya feels strangely melancholy. What, exactly, is he leaving behind? Memories of his parents, he supposes. He only dared to take one photograph – if he packed all his belongings and memorabilia, it would have aroused too much suspicion. Officially, he was only going on his honeymoon, and nobody took all their possessions with them when they went on their honeymoon.

He supposes he’s also leaving behind Oleg, the man who cared more for Illya than Illya ever cared for him and…

Before he can get second thoughts, the train starts picking up speed. From where he’s sitting next to Gaby, Illya can just make out the top of Napoleon’s hat. He starts counting down the hours until they’ll be safe abroad.

Giving Gaby’s hand a gentle squeeze, he lets himself believe that a new, better life is waiting for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My research notes for this chapter:
> 
>   * Oleg's character in this fic is inspired by Felix Dzerzhinsky ([1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0D5A8IaZIM), 2) and Lavrentiy Beria ([1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9t3XZeZg5Qk&t=0s&list=PLhuA9d7RIOdaC77FVxfnkiHWyv2sZGa-7&index=7%20), [2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TpV-nDXVK2Q&list=PLhuA9d7RIOdaC77FVxfnkiHWyv2sZGa-7&index=7%20))
>   * Petrenko is inspired by Nikolai Yezhov ([1](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nikolai_Yezhov%20))
>   * Some background info on Stalin and the Great Terror/the purges of the 1930s ([1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SIzApqzlP3Q), [2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EORQJhrfPpY%20), [3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BgtMfypVPDM%20), [4](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0HFSnmUUs7k), [5](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JlHL5zEP3rM%20))
> 



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented and/or left kudos in support of this fic on the last chapter! <333

They'd changed trains at the border.

Now, they’re traveling on a train with separate compartments. Taking advantage of that fact, Napoleon joins Illya and Gaby in a compartment.

They’re discussing their plan in hushed voices, but Gaby has a difficult time following along. She’s captivated by the passing landscape she can see through the carriage window. Even though it doesn’t look all that different from the Russian countryside – she’s in a foreign country, a country in which there’s freedom…

However, it’s not yet the country they’re trying to reach.

“We need to go to Berlin before we can go to Copenhagen. It's part of Oleg's plan,” Illya mumbles. “Maybe we can start by getting a few Russian emigrés on our side. We could build up a network of supporters who believe our story about Grand Duchess Maria.”

“We can also look for Illya’s relatives,” Gaby throws in, pulling out a sheet of paper. “I’ve been going through our sources and made a list of all boys of noble birth who lived in and around the palace at the time. We’d just need to ask our way through the list.”

She’s been reading the memoirs Napoleon had managed to get hold of, as well as the files Illya had stolen from the archives. The list she now holds in her hands contains the names of families close to the Romanovs who had had sons between the year 1908, the year Illya believes he was born.

The most promising candidates are the son of a lady-in-waiting and the sons of a man who served as a bodyguard for the Grand Duchesses and the Czarevich. Those boys had been playmates of the Czar’s children, which would match the hazy childhood memories Illya had of them.

“The list is a very good idea,” Napoleon acknowledges. “I hope my favorite Berlin night clubs still exist. I want to show them to you, I had a great time there back in 1923.”

“What’s so special about the night clubs?” Illya asks.

“Let’s just say that Berlin has a large community of open-minded people. If you catch my drift,” Napoleon says with a wink. “We could go there without having to hide. I want to take you out for a night of dancing – it’s the second most intimate activity people can do with each other, you know?”

For the next hour, Gaby keeps herself busy by quizzing herself on family trees and small details which might come in handy.

However, she’s read all the notes countless times and before long, the letters start to blur, and she feels the urge to yawn more and more often. The rattling of the train helps and before long, she dozes off.

She only wakes up again when Illya gently shakes her away and kisses her temple.

Confused and disoriented, Gaby rubs her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Sleep well?” Illya asks so cheerfully and carefree that it sounds a little insincere.

A part of her wants to ask what happened while she slept that made Illya so happy, but quickly realizes that they’re no longer alone in the compartment.

A woman with two young children has joined them in the compartment. So that’s why he felt the need to put on an act.

The two young children are fidgeting, especially the younger one, who’s still a toddler. Their mother is trying to keep the smaller child on her lap from trying to explore the train compartment, a fact about which the kid is not too happy. The continual whimpering starts to grate on Gaby’s nerves after just a few minutes.

The other child, a girl of about four years, is currently being charmed by Napoleon. He’s started showing her coin tricks to the child’s immense delight. He makes it look like he just plucked a kopek from behind the girl’s ear. Napoleon gives her the coin and the child crows in delight.

The mother turns to Gaby and Illya. “How long have you two been married?” she asks them, gesturing to the matching rings on their hands.

“It’s our honeymoon, actually,” Gaby says, shifting closer to Illya. “We only got married a few days ago.”

“Yes, I thought so,” the woman laughs, adjusting her headscarf with one hand while bouncing the child on her lap. “Enjoy it while it lasts. Before you know it, you’ll have children, too, and you’ll wonder if you’ll ever find time for each other again.”

“I… um, I don’t think—" Gaby stammers.

Children? She glances at Illya, who looks as uncomfortable as she feels. Reflexively, they both look to Napoleon. He’s become the little girl’s new favorite person if her bright smile and loud demands to be shown more tricks are any indication.

Napoleon would be good with children. Gaby can’t speak for Illya, but she’s never been able to imagine herself as a mother. Is that something either of the men would want? They’ve never talked about it. But if they wanted children, Gaby is almost sure she wouldn’t be able to give them any.

Does that make her a bad person?

She imagines herself in the place of the young mother on the opposite seat. What would it be like? The young woman is probably a few years younger than Gaby, yet she looks exhausted and has dark shadows under her eyes – possibly the courtesy of working long hours during the day and taking care of the children who won’t go to sleep at night.

She thinks of the constrained living conditions, the lack of space in shared apartments in the city. It’s less than ideal if you’re on your own, but the situation becomes ever more hellish the larger your family is.

She pictures herself walking through the streets, a small child not even measuring up to her hip is clutching her hand, while she’s carrying a toddler on her hip. She pictures the faceless, hypothetical children, perhaps one with blond hair, one with black hair, and both with piercing blue eyes. With a start, she realizes she can’t see herself in either of the so very hypothetical children.

Her bottom lip is trembling, and she tries to find an acceptable answer.

“They only just got married,” Napoleon throws in. “They should take the time to grow into a strong couple before they take on a responsibility like raising children together.”

Gaby lets out a sigh of relief and feels Illya relax beside her.

The woman blushes, realizing she might have crossed a line.

From then on, Napoleon leads the conversation, exploiting his charm and the fact he’s from overseas.

Nevertheless, it all feels incredibly awkward and stilted to Gaby. They’ve crossed the border, they ought to be able to finally speak freely. She doesn’t want to pretend Napoleon is a stranger who Illya and she only met by chance in a train compartment.

It makes her skin crawl, like an itch she can’t manage to scratch. She’s no longer in Russia – the pretending should have been over. What are they afraid of? They ought to be free now!

Right?

She’ll have to live a lie for the rest of her life, she realizes. If their plan succeeds, if the Romanovs believe Gaby’s one of them, she’ll never be able to tell the truth.

A lump is forming in her throat and her chest is constricted, making it hard to breathe. Shivering, she wraps her coat tightly around herself, leaning against Illya’s side.

Gaby squeezes her eyes shut, trying to block out those thoughts. After a while, the gentle rocking of the train lulls her into a fitful sleep once more.

She dreams.

She’s walking through an elegant building – the walls and ceiling are so lavishly and elegantly decorated, it can only be a palace. Expensive paintings are covering the walls, gold, silver, and precious stones are seemingly everywhere. She’s never seen such luxury, but something is off…

Her head’s so heavy, she can barely keep it upright. When she passes by a large mirror, she gasps when she sees her reflection.

She’s wearing a white dress with a long trail, which incidentally looks nothing like the dress she’d worn when she’d gotten married to Illya. More disconcerting, however, is the crown she’s wearing on her head.

It’s made of diamonds and rubies, all of which sparkle so brightly Gaby wants to shield her eyes, but she’s frozen in the mirror, like a pillar of salt.

“What—” she whispers.

“Maria,” a familiar voice says out of the blue.

Gaby whirls around, clutching at her chest. Her heart is beating so fast she can hear the rush of blood in her ears.

Napoleon is standing just a few feet away, yet she hadn’t heard him approach. He’s giving her a strangely serene smile and opens his mouth to repeat the false name.

“Maria.”

Gaby doesn’t care. She wants to throw himself into his arms, wants to hold him close and hope everything would be different once he releases her from the embrace.

He doesn’t hug her.

Instead, he only takes her hand into his and leads her through the corridor into a ballroom packed with people. They’re all dressed to the nines, wearing the most expensive clothes Gaby has ever seen. The dress she’s wearing, the one she’d thought was incredibly ostentatious and almost vulgar in its lavishness when she’d first seen it in the mirror looks downright plain compared to the other ladies’ dresses.

People she doesn’t recognize bow to her, addressing her with “Your Imperial Highness”.

Gaby can’t bring herself to identify with the title.

She tries to turn back, but she can’t find the exit again and Napoleon won’t let go of her hand. She raises her free hand – if she can’t get out of the ballroom and away from all the people, she at least wants to get the crown off her head, but it seems like it’s glued to her head.

People are staring at her, their facial expressions ranging from mild displeasure to undisguised ridicule. Gaby knows, she’s probably breaking every rule of protocol imaginable, but she doesn’t even know what she’s supposed to do!

Who are all these people and what do they want from her?

Napoleon pulls her through the crowd, towards a group of people and Gaby recognizes them immediately.

They don’t look a day older than in the pictures she’s studied with Illya and Napoleon. Almost the entire Imperial Family is standing in front of her, alive and happy. She recognizes them all, the Czar, the Czarina and the Grand Duchesses. They’re smiling at her, as though she belongs with them, as though she is a Romanov, and not an impostor trying to fool her way into an inheritance that doesn’t belong to her.

Before she knows it, tears are running down her cheeks, the crown on her head is getting heavier and heavier.

They’re still smiling at her. Gaby wants nothing more than to disappear right then and there.

Napoleon pulls out a silk handkerchief and uses it to dry her tears.

“Let’s find Peril,” he says, placing his hand on her lower back, practically steering her through the crowd, away from the specters of the Romanovs.

They spot Illya, who’s talking to a fragile-looking elderly lady and a middle-aged man. As they get closer, Gaby identifies the woman as the Dowager Empress and the man as Alexander Waverly.

Illya is smiling at them and both the Dowager Empress and Lord Waverly look at him with fondness.

But that can’t be right, can it? Illya despises Waverly, he wouldn’t have a friendly chat with him.

Gaby furrows her brows. There’s a hidden meaning somewhere, but she can’t quite put her finger on it. If she could only get to Illya and ask him…

The scene dissolves, as she’s jostled awake by the increased rattling of the train. Before she even has the chance to wake up properly, gravity suddenly shifts.

She’s catapulted forward, hitting her forehead against the armrest. Pain explodes through her head and her lip, which she accidentally bit through due to the impact.

“The train’s going off the rails!” Illya shouts amidst the screeching of metal and the sound of wood splintering.

She’s disoriented and something about her face feels off, but she can’t focus on it right now. When she tries to open her eyes, the compartment has been plunged into nigh-complete darkness. It takes her a moment to realize the carriage must be lying on its side, with the window-side down.

There’s a heavy, male body on top of her, holding her down, but she can’t tell who it is. It’s difficult to breathe. Fighting the urge to hyperventilate, she squeezes her eyes shut and finds herself starting to pray, even though fifteen years of anti-religious propaganda should have stamped out any religious belief for good.

The man on top of her shifts his weight off her. “Gaby?” he asks, and she realizes it’s Napoleon. “You’re okay?”

“I think so,” she lies.

The metallic taste of blood fills her mouth as the carriage roof creaks ominously.

“Peril?”

“Here,” Illya says. “Can you move?”

They both answer in the affirmative.

The carriage roof makes another threatening sound and Napoleon lets out a barrage of curses. “We need to figure out how to get out of there,” he urges. “Maybe we could—"

“I’m on it,” Illya groans.

“What do you mean by that?” Napoleon asks.

Illya doesn’t give a verbal answer, but his idea becomes clear when the damaged carriage roof is suddenly being lifted from the ground.

For a moment, Gaby is frozen in awe and can only stare in disbelief at Illya holding the carriage roof up. Until now, she hadn’t realized how strong he was. He looks like Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

They scramble to get out of the carriage. Afterward, Napoleon helps Illya support the roof a little, he Illya can get to safety, too.

Illya’s panting, his face is covered with a thin sheen of sweat from the exertion, but he startles when he sees Gaby’s face.

“You’re bleeding,” he says.

“I’m not,” she protests weakly, but when she touches her face, her fingers come back red with blood. She looks down at herself – her clothes are stained red; the blood is rapidly drying to a flaky brown.

Napoleon quickly pulls out a handkerchief and gives it to her, mirroring the scene in her dream.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, pressing the piece of cloth to her forehead to still the bleeding.

“Stay with her, Cowboy,” Illya says.

He takes a few deep breaths, surveying the chaos around them. Their carriage was not the only one that derailed. There are splinters everywhere, and people who’ve managed to free themselves are running around, several of them panicking with tears in their eyes.

“I can help—” he starts.

Illya locks eyes with him and shakes his head. “You stay with Gaby,” he says with a firm voice that makes it very clear that any resistance would be futile. “I am stronger than you, I can do more. Stop the bleeding. Gaby, if you feel faint or sick, say something right away. If I find a doctor, I’ll ask them to have a look at you.”

Napoleon nods and obediently sits down on the ground next to Gaby, cradling her in his arms. He’s getting blood on his expensive clothes that way, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Where’s the woman and her children?” Gaby asks, a wave of panic overtaking her. “They weren’t in our carriage! Do you think they’re—”

“They got off while you were asleep,” Napoleon replies. “They’re safe. And please don’t worry, I think you should take it easy, injured as you are.”

Gaby watches Illya’s figure who marched off towards the other carriages. He’s talking to people, giving orders and helping free people from the rubble.

Suddenly, a laugh claws its way up through her throat and out of her mouth. The laugh comes out strangely hoarse, closer to a sob, really, but it’s strangely liberating.

“Are you feeling alright?” Napoleon asks quickly. “Do you need anything? Can I—"

“I’m alright,” she laughs, trying to ignore how the shaking of her torso makes her head throb. “I just thought it would have been great propaganda. Imagine the headline: ‘OGPU agent heroically organizes rescue mission’.”

Napoleon blinks slowly and hands her a new handkerchief since the old one is soaked with blood already. Looking at the figure of Illya in the distance, he mumbles: “I was thinking of the Borki train accident. Czar Alexander III did the same, remember? We’ll have to ask Peril if that’s where he got the idea to even try to lift the carriage roof.”

Gaby runs her tongue over her bitten lip, trying to gauge the damage without a mirror. “Yes, I suppose we’ll have to ask him.”

The adrenaline rush in her body ebbs off, her eyelids start to droop as she realizes how exhausted she is and she slumps against Napoleon.

After what seems like an eternity, Illya returns with a man in tow, who says he’s a doctor.

Illya introduces Gaby as his wife. If the doctor is surprised Illya doesn’t seem to mind that another man is holding his wife in his arms and wiping the blood off her face, he doesn’t show it beyond slightly raising his eyebrows. One look from Illya is enough to shut him up.

Gaby makes it through the medical examination - nothing’s broken. She gets three stitches on her forehead and the advice to see a doctor in a proper practice as soon as she can.

“There will be a scar,” the doctor says when he picks up his bag to attend to more wounded people. “You’re lucky. It’s just going to be a small one.”

“You say that as though scars are a bad thing, Doctor,” Illya says, gesturing to a scar curling around his left temple and eye. The scar tissue looks almost silvery when the light hits it. “It just means we’ll match.”

“At any rate, she’ll have a black eye. From what I can tell, it’s going to swell quite badly. She should take it easy these next few days, if possible.” The doctor gives them one last look but still doesn’t comment on how Napoleon is still closer to Gaby than Illya.

The alcohol they gave her to numb her pain during the stitches is making her drowsy and her memories of the next few hours are a little fuzzy. She doesn’t remember how he did it exactly, but Napoleon managed to talk a local nobleman into lending his nearby castle as a temporary shelter for the victims of the train crash.

Thus, she finds herself in the large sitting room of the castle, wrapped in a blanket and sandwiched between Illya and Napoleon. The men practically radiate body heat and it helps her feel warm and safe.

Napoleon is chatting with the count and the countess. They speak in Italian since the countess is an Italian noblewoman, which means Gaby doesn’t understand a single thing. However, it sounds nice and melodic, especially when paired with Napoleon’s accent.

The countess and the count seem to be quite delighted with Napoleon, not that Gaby is surprised. Napoleon Solo managed to charm the OGPU’s best man, some landed gentry should hardly be a challenge for him.

Landed gentry… she chokes on a laugh when she remembers she’s supposed to be a Romanov. Had it not been for the revolution, the count and countess would have been her subjects. ‘Get a grip,’ she thinks to herself.

“Well, I’ve never really thought about it,” Napoleon suddenly says in Russian. “Opinions?”

“What’s the matter?” Illya asks.

“Well, we were having a conversation about my name. Count Ludwik thinks of naming a child after a conqueror is going to be a good omen, as it encourages bravery and daring. The lovely countess Caterina doesn’t agree with him and thinks it’s rather stupid. For context, they’re expecting their first child early next year.”

Gaby shrugs. “Napoleon Bonaparte achieved a lot,” she says diplomatically. “And he was undoubtedly a great conqueror.”

“But he failed,” Illya points out, smirking. “He set out to conquer Russia, but in the end, Russia brought Napoleon to his knees.”

Thankfully, the innuendo goes over the head of the count and the countess. Gaby, however, has to stifle a laugh and the spark in Napoleon’s eyes tells her that he sees Illya’s comment as a challenge. It’ll be quite interesting to find out who’s going to be brought to his knees tonight.

“But he did get quite far into the country, didn’t he?” Napoleon counters. “And Europe was never the same after him, so he had a huge impact. Russia was hardly his only campaign. He crossed the Alps—"

“He was hardly the first general to do that,” the count throws in and suddenly his eyes light up a little.

The couple starts arguing in ever-faster Italian and at one point, even Napoleon starts to look lost - Gaby feels a little disappointed, she’d been hoping for him to pass along the gossip after the fact.

The Countess throws up her arms in defeat after a few minutes and sighs dramatically. “Well, I hope it’s going to be a girl,” she says, patting her belly. “Then my child won’t be named after some long-dead generals. No offense,” she adds in the direction of Napoleon before she gestures to Gaby and Illya. “And how many children do you want?”

Gaby gets out of answering the question by claiming she doesn’t feel well and asks if she could be permitted to retreat.

Illya and she are assigned a quite comfortable guest bedroom. Illya starts to fuss over her, but she insists she’s fine, she just didn’t want to continue the conversation with the countess. 

Illya furrows his brows like he wants to follow it up with more questions. 

Actually, Gaby didn’t want to talk about having children, but she’s surely not going to bring up that topic now.

Out of habit, she starts running through the warm-up stretches she usually does before a ballet class. It gives her body something to do, her mind something to concentrate on, and it feels good to stretch her muscles after sitting in a train all day (not to mention making it through the derailment of said train).

“I thought the doctor said you should take it easy?” Illya asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Gaby rolls her eyes. Before she can get an answer in, there’s a knock on the door.

Napoleon lets himself into their room.

He exchanges quite a few kisses with Illya, making up for all the time they had to act like they don’t know each other.

“Will you stay the night?” Illya asks. “I mean if everyone’s alright with—"

Gaby nods before he even finishes the sentence. During the charade they’ve been forced to play, their dynamic felt decidedly off. Being together again feels so right.

“We can push the beds together,” she suggests. “I just hope the countess won’t have a heart attack if she finds out Illya and I invited another man into our bed.”

“I think she’d be a lot more jealous than shocked,” Napoleon says with a wry smile, helping Illya rearrange the beds to form one large double-bed. It’ll be a tight fit, but they’d manage. “Let’s say I got quite the suggestive offer from the two of them after you left.”

“They did seem to like you,” Illya points out. “That means they have good taste, even though I didn’t necessarily see that from the interior decoration of their sitting room.”

“Just because you’re married to a Grand Duchess now doesn’t mean you need to start acting like a spoiled aristocrat,” Gaby points out, playfully swatting at Illya’s chest.

Illya ignores the jibe, giving Napoleon an inquisitive look instead. “I hope they’re not going to be offended that you didn’t take them up on their offer just to sleep in our room?”

“I think they took it well,” Napoleon says with a shrug. “I may or may not have said something about having to bring a certain Russian to his knees.”

“You did  _ not _ .”

“No, I said I was flattered, but I didn’t feel like taking them up on their offer. They got the gist and I think they probably suspected I was going to spend the night with you two anyway.”

“Great, now everyone knows we’re traveling together,” Illya sighs.

“But we are no longer in the Soviet Union,” Napoleon points out. “So it’s not that bad. The question is where do we go from here?”

“My uncle Rudi and his wife live in Königsberg,” Gaby pipes up. “It’s not too far from here. I haven’t seen them ever since I was a girl, but I’m sure I could telegraph ahead. They could put us up for a night or two until we figure out our travel plans.”

“And I’ll get a room in a hotel, I suppose?” Napoleon asks. “It’s one thing to introduce your new husband to them. It’s another thing entirely to also introduce your boyfriend who also happens to be your husband’s boyfriend.”

“Right, I didn’t think of that,” she acknowledges. “You know, I hate it that we have to pretend all the time.”

“If everything goes well, we’ll soon be millionaires, we’ll have a large mansion with a park somewhere and we’ll do whatever we want and lead a quiet life.”

Illya snorts.

“As if you would ever be satisfied with a quiet life,” Gaby says.

“Alright, you two try to lead a quiet life and I’ll make sure you’ll never get bored,” Napoleon concedes, pressing a kiss to Gaby’s pulse point on the inside of her wrist. “How’s your head?”

“Hurting, but it’s not too bad. A good night’s rest and I should be okay. I’ve had worse.”

Napoleon frowns but turns to Illya anyway. “How’s your… everything? You’ve got to be sore after that stunt with the carriage roof.”

“I’m fine.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow. “We’ve been over this.”

“You’ve been over what?”

“I’d like Illya to tell me when he needs something so we can talk about it. Because, usually, he just keeps quiet and hopes the issue will work itself out,” Napoleon says. “The same goes for you, by the way.”

“I said I’m fine,” Illya insists, with a pinched expression that makes Gaby think he’s not being totally honest. But how could she blame him, growing up as they did? Hiding parts of yourself away is a survival skill.

“About that,” Gaby throws in. “You did exactly what Alexander III. supposedly did and you said couldn’t be done.”

“Are you going to admit the Czarist propaganda could have been right?” Napoleon chips in.

“It’s what gave me the idea,” Illya mutters, cheeks reddening until his face is suspiciously crimson, blood rushing under his skin and giving away a discomfort he’d never dare to put into plain words. “I didn’t know if it would work. And I might have pulled a muscle doing it,” he admits. “Either that or I’m just really sore… I’d appreciate a massage, to be honest.”

“You’re lucky I have a thing for stubborn Russian spies, you know that?” Napoleon says, gesturing for Illya to take off his shirt to give him easier access.

Illya complies, hangs up the shirt properly and turns around to give Gaby and Napoleon a grin. “And you’re lucky the stubborn Russian spy has a thing for false Grand Duchesses and American art thieves.”

Gaby frowns. Something’s been bugging her ever since she’s seen Illya lift the carriage roof, but she can’t put her finger on it. It has something to do with Illya and the notes she made regarding his possible ancestry. She tries to read through her notes, but, as the doctor predicted, her eye is completely swollen shut. It makes it hard to read, the letters appear blurry and her headache gets worse.

She sets the notes aside, vowing she’ll get back to them as soon as she can use both her eyes again.

She falls asleep, finally getting some of the rest the doctor prescribed.

Come next morning, she can’t figure out what bothered her so much about Illya that made her want to frantically study her notes the day before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Research notes for this chapter:
> 
>   * First of all, the wedding speech in Chapter 3 was taken from this research paper: Jennifer McDowell, [Soviet Civil Ceremonies](http://www.jstor.org/stable/1384758), in: Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 13/3 (1974), 265–279.
>   * On the one hand, the train accident in this chapter mirrors the train accident from Anastasia (minus Rasputin interfering because Rasputin won't make an appearance in this fic). On the other hand, it's also inspired by the [Borki train disaster](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Borki_train_disaster), in which Czar Alexander III. and his family were involved.
> 



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos and encouraging comments on the previous chapters! It was very sweet and I appreciate the support a lot! <3
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: mentions of Nazi ideology (Uncle Rudy makes an appearance)

Königsberg, as it turns out, is a beautiful city. Illya would have been able to appreciate it more if his sore muscles didn’t hurt whenever he moved. He’s strong, but the stunt with the train two days ago has taken a toll on him.

Gaby’s eye is still swollen and mottled in shades of purple and green. It looks like she’s been in a vicious fight and people are giving her weird looks.

Illya’s sitting next to Gaby in the entrance lobby of a fancy hotel, waiting for Napoleon to book his room. Trust Napoleon to pick only the best accommodation the city had to offer.

The American is currently speaking with the female receptionist. The blush on the young woman’s cheeks suggests she’s being subjected to a charm offensive and Illya wouldn’t be surprised if Napoleon flirted his way into paying only half the regular price.

Napoleon thanks the receptionist and saunters over to them, a triumphant grin on his face and keys dangling from one of his fingers.

“I’ve got my room,” he says, letting the keys jingle in front of Illya’s face for a second, as though he was daring him to snatch it away. “Apparently, it’s the room with the best view, too. Although she might have been talking about my face.”

“I’m sure she was,” Gaby snorts. “We’ll meet for breakfast tomorrow? I’m sure you can charm the receptionist into letting us eat here, too.”

“Before I do any more ‘charming’, I’ll check the train timetables and book tickets. Or maybe we can take a ferry to Copenhagen, then we wouldn’t have to stop in Berlin… I suppose you’d have to write to your adoptive father about such a change of plans, wouldn’t you, Peril?”

“I’d stick to Oleg’s plan,” Illya says. He doesn’t want to cause any more problems for his adoptive father. “Ask for train tickets to Berlin.”

“Alright, I will,” Napoleon says. “Oh, and a word of advice, if I may… try to smile a little more, Peril. You look like you’re one step away from murdering someone and that usually doesn’t make a good impression when you’re about to meet your wife’s relatives.”

“I’ll try,” Illya deadpans. “Until tomorrow morning?”

Napoleon says his goodbyes to Gaby by kissing her on the cheek. Illya awkwardly shakes hands with him. In public, they can’t do more than that without arousing suspicion.

As the two of them exit the hotel, Illya takes a few deep breaths. He’s carrying their luggage with one hand, Gaby on his other arm. She looks determined and confident, but her nails are digging into the skin of his arm.

“So, your uncle and your aunt?” he asks. “What can I expect?”

“Well, Uncle Rudy… he certainly has opinions and he’s not afraid to voice them. Just remember, it's just for one or two nights, depending on how long it will take to make the travel arrangements. Uh…his wife is nice?”

“I hope you realize that’s not reassuring at all,” Illya says, stopping for a moment to adjust his grip on the suitcase handle. “When the only positive thing you can say about your uncle is ‘His wife is nice.’”

“You know what they say, you can’t choose who you’re related to,” Gaby says and pauses to ask a passerby for directions. “It’s strange. Sometimes, I have the feeling I now know more about my fake royal relatives than my actual family.”

“I’m sure your uncle can’t be worse than the Romanovs,” Illya jokes weakly.

“Did you read all of Waverly’s book? Apparently, the Dowager Empress once fainted because she thought there were too many commoners in the palace,” Gaby giggles. “‘This is a catastrophe! The empire is going to the dogs!’” she says in a hysterical impression of what she imagines the Dowager Empress to talk like.

“Right, I almost forgot about Waverly,” Illya says grimly. “I can’t wait to get my hands on him and expose him as the lying fraud he is.”

“I forgot,” Gaby whispers, remembering Waverly’s responsibility for the death of the Czarevich. “Sometimes, it’s so difficult to remember they’re all dead. I know it sounds horrible, but all those anecdotes and stories… it makes me feel like I’ve known them, even though I’ve never met them.” She recalls the dream she’s had, shortly before the train derailed, the one in which she met the Romanovs and the eerie way they smiled at her.

“Looking for their graves was awful,” Illya says. “It’s difficult to reconcile vague memories of people you’ve known with skeletons in unmarked graves somewhere in Siberia. Thrown away like trash, I—“ he falters.

“It’s alright,” Gaby says, squeezing his arm. “You don’t have to go on if you don’t want to. Or we can talk about it later when we’re not in public anymore. Come on, it should be on this street,” she adds and points to a well-maintained street with nicely restored houses.

He takes a deep breath. Compared to grappling with his memories, meeting Gaby’s uncle and aunt is starting to sound like a pleasant alternative. He thinks of the list of families Gaby’s compiled, the families to whom Illya might belong. Whenever he sees her brooding over the list, studying books and looking for the tiniest reference that might be helpful, he gets the urge to ask her to stop looking. As it is, he’s not even sure if he wants to know the truth.

With the deaths of Nikolai Zhukov and Vasilisa Kuryakina, he’s already lost a father and a mother. In a way, he’s also lost Oleg.

Whether Gaby’s endeavor ultimately is successful or not, it’s not difficult to guess what happened to his family during the revolution. They must have been part of the nobility. If they’d been able to flee the country, they wouldn’t have left one of their children behind.

In a way, he’s grateful he has almost no memories left of the time before he was adopted. If Gaby were really Maria, he thinks, how would she be feeling about it all? If one of the young Grand Duchesses had survived the revolution, it would truly be a miracle, straight out of a fairytale.

Instead, there’s an old woman in Copenhagen, who used to be the Empress of an empire that has ceased to exist. She’s refusing to acknowledge that the revolution has eradicated large parts of her family, so she’s offering finder’s reward in a desperate attempt to rewrite history, undoubtedly encouraged by liars like Waverly who give her a false sense of hope.

“We’re here,” Gaby says.

Illya blinks in confusion. He’s been so lost in his thoughts, he’s completely forgotten where they are going.

“Ready?” she asks. Her finger is hovering over a doorbell with a nameplate that has “Rudolph and Waltraud von Trulsch” scrawled on it.

He’s far from ready but nods anyway.

She presses the doorbell.

To Illya, the bell sounds extremely shrill.

“Well,” Gaby says, as soon as they can hear footsteps approaching the front door from the inside. “Here goes.”

The door is opened by a middle-aged lady with a kind demeanor. She reminds Illya of his mother, how she might look if she were still alive. The smile on the woman’s face freezes when she sees them and she blinks a few times before she’s regained her composure.

“Gabriella, how nice to see you,” she whispers. It’s a tone of voice Illya recognizes in a heartbeat. During his years at the OGPU, he’s had ample opportunity to observe what shock and fear can do to a person’s voice. “What happened to your face, dear?”

She’s decidedly unsubtle – her gaze keeps flitting from Gaby’s black eye to Illya and back. Illya has opinions about people who beat their partners and has sworn to himself that he’ll never sink to such low levels. Being regarded as one of them makes him sick.

“We had an accident while traveling,” Gaby says. “The train derailed. I thought I’d told you so in the telegram? Anyway, I hit my head and that’s how I got hurt. Illya was great,” she adds pointedly. “He helped the other passengers and found a doctor for me.”

Despite Gaby’s efforts, it’s clear her aunt doesn’t fully believe her. “Yes, we were quite _surprised_ to hear that you got married,” Waltraud says. “I understand it was quite the whirlwind romance… So, this is your husband? Russian, I assume?”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Illya says in German, shakes her hand, and forces himself to smile. “Illya Olegovich Zhukov,” he introduces himself with the name written on his fake passport.

Illya busies himself with carrying their suitcase inside the house and into the guest room, while Gaby chats with her aunt. During times like these, he wishes he had Napoleon’s charisma. If he could always come up with the right thing to say to people, situations like this one wouldn’t be nearly as awkward.

At least Gaby’s uncle is still at work, which might give him time to make friends with her aunt first.

“Darling, do you want something to eat?” Gaby calls from the kitchen. “Aunt Waltraud said she could fix us something if you’re hungry?”

He’s not hungry, but Gaby’s aunt might see it as an offense if he declined her offer of food. He obediently sits down at the table next to Gaby and tries to appear as charming and non-threatening as possible in front of Waltraud von Trulsch. Gaby is handling the conversation, telling her aunt a fake story of how she and Illya met. Allegedly, he kept sending her flowers after performances, until she agreed to go out with him and discovered that he was not nearly as annoying as she would have thought from the barrage of bouquets.

Illya makes a face at that story but covers it up as embarrassment. Waltraud doesn’t look as though she believes them but lets it go, much to Illya’s relief. He feels slightly out of place in the rather fancy dining room.

The travesty of lunch is over soon. Gaby claims to need some time to freshen up and pointedly asks Illya if he wants to help her unpack their suitcase.

“I suppose it could have gone worse,” Illya says in Russian as they retreat to their room.

“And how, pray tell?” Gaby kicks off her shoes and lies down on the bed. “You know, I never thought that would be the thing that would annoy me the most is that I can only see through one eye. It makes me nauseous.”

She rummages through the suitcase until she finds a hairbrush and starts brushing the tangles out of her hair. “You know, I have half a mind to have sex and be really, really loud.”

“How loud?” he asks, unable to hide his amusement.

“So loud that the whole street knows how much I love what you’re doing to me,” she says with a lopsided grin. “But especially so that Aunt Waltraud won’t be able to go out on the streets for the next couple of months without being reminded of the time she hosted us. The _things_ she said to me while you were—"

“Is there a telephone around here?” Illya interrupts her.

“Why?”

He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. “If you _really_ want to cause a scandal, we could call Napoleon and ask him to come over.”

“Aunt Waltraud would have a heart attack,” she giggles. “Although, it probably would be enough if you and Napoleon kissed in front of her.”

They laugh about it, making up more and more scandalous scenarios.

“I guess we’re lucky that Oleg never found out about the two of you,” Gaby giggles.

“I’m not so…uhm… sure about that,” Illya falters. All of a sudden, it’s difficult to breathe and he shivers against his will. “Honestly, I think Oleg knew all along.”

Gaby’s smile vanishes and is replaced by an expression of concern. “Are you _sure_? Why would you think that he knew?”

“He made some strange comments. When he told me to marry you, I asked him if the mission - Napoleon, I mean - wasn’t important anymore. He said that Napoleon would be able to take care of himself and go wherever it was that he had to go,” Illya confesses. “He also insinuated that he knew Napoleon and I were essentially making stuff up for our reports.”

“Oh,” Gaby whispers. “You think he knew and _approved_? What if it’s a trap and we’re being followed? An agent is probably just waiting until we’re… shit, we left Napoleon alone at the hotel!”

“No, that’s not it,” Illya insists. “If an agent was following us, we would have noticed, trust me. No, I think Oleg just wanted to help me, as strange as it sounds. I imagine Petrenko has already taken the necessary steps to chip away at Oleg’s image. He knew he wouldn’t have much time left.”

“Why would they replace him now? He hasn’t made any obvious mistake, has he?” Gaby asks.

Illya takes a few breaths, using the time to collect his thoughts. “The terror got out of hand. They need a scapegoat,” he says. “It’s always the same. I don’t know if Petrenko realizes he’ll be used like they used Oleg, but when you’re asked to do that job, you don’t say no,” he says with a defeatist shrug. “They’ll portray Oleg as a monster and the public will think we’re being ruled by crooks and wreckers.”

He turns around to face Gaby and, seeing the pained look on her face, he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry.

“You understand, don’t you? Growing up, I really _believed_ we were the future, that we were going to make the world a better place. It hurt when I had to realize that’s not what’s happening. All is well as long as you’re convinced that the end justifies the means, but you can’t lie to yourself forever.”

“You did realize it, in the end,” Gaby says, gets up and winds her arms around his waist. 

“I’d kiss your shoulder or the back of your neck or something, but I can’t reach it, so please just pretend that’s what I’m doing,” she mumbles into the fabric of Illya’s shirt. “I thought you’d laugh. I was trying really hard with that joke.”

“You weren’t.”

“I wasn’t.”

Illya sighs. “Do you remember how your colleagues from the ballet looked at me? How your aunt looks at me? They look at me like I’m a monster and I hate it.”

“But you’re not,” Gaby says and steps around him so that she’s standing in front of him. She tilts her head to the side and looks up at him. “You know that you’re not, don’t you? Then why do you care what other people think about you?”

“Maybe I’m scared that I am one,” Illya admits and closes his eyes for a moment, not able to look Gaby in the face. Her eye is no longer as swollen as it used to be, but now it’s started to be dark purple. “People seem to think so, at least. Maybe it’s because we’ve been researching the Imperial Family? We’re going to have to live a lie until the rest of our lives if our plan succeeds and I’m scared of losing the truth. Or of forgetting it, I don’t know.”

“I’ve been dreaming about them,” Gaby whispers. “I had a nightmare about seeing them when the train crashed. It was _horrible_. Napoleon and you, you were both there, but it was… they kept smiling at me as though I _belonged_.”

“I’ve been dreaming about them, too,” Illya admits and has the urge to hold Gaby close and then go out and find Napoleon to do the same to him, to never let them out of his sight again. He’s so terrified of _losing_ them as if they hadn’t been in more danger back in Russia. “They keep smiling as well, keep telling me it’s not my fault. They say they forgive me, even, though I know that’s not… they’re dead and gone, there’s no forgiveness to be found there,” he falters and instead, lets out a barrage of all the curse words that come to his mind. “I’m sorry,” he says, once he has regained his composure. “I’m sorry for losing my composure like that, I hope I didn’t scare you.”

“No, you didn’t,” Gaby says. “To be honest, I think that was the most you spoke in one go ever since we met,” she adds with a gentle smile. “We should talk to Napoleon and ask him if he’s had any trouble with former emperors showing up in his dreams as well. It’s probably just the stress,” she says, trying to make light of the situation. “The quick wedding, the traveling, the accident. A couple days of rest and we’ll be back at peak performance.”

Illya smiles and doesn’t tell her that his dreams started well before they even started researching the Romanovs. His dreams started after he was tasked with excavating their graves.

* * *

Gaby’s aunt ropes her into helping her with some household chores. Illya offers to help the two women, but Waltraud von Trulsch rebuffs him.

Clearly, she’s looking for a pretense to talk to Gaby alone, far away from Illya’s prying eyes.

“Why don’t you go for a walk?” Waltraud asks him. “You should see a little bit of the city while you’re here. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable letting Gaby help you on her own, especially since she’s supposed to take it easy, according to the doctor,” he objects.

“Darling,” Gaby begins in Russian. “Go take a walk around the city, maybe visit our friend and ask him if he has any news regarding our tickets. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very,” she says. “If you see Napoleon, give him a kiss from me,” she adds with a wink.

Illya bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing. “Of course,” he says. “Not in public, perhaps, we don’t want to cause a scandal just yet.”

“We’ll save that for Copenhagen.” Gaby demonstratively goes up on the tips of her toes so she can sling her arms around Illya’s neck and kiss him in plain sight of her aunt. “See you in time for dinner.”

* * *

He strolls through the city, trying not to get lost. From time to time, his hand reflexively moves up to brush the tips of his fingers against his lips and he smiles to himself.

Upon reaching the hotel, the receptionist informs him that Napoleon went out a couple of hours ago. He hasn’t returned yet.

Illya fights down a wave of anxiety. It’s perfectly natural for Napoleon to need a bit of time to find the best travel option for them.

He needn’t worry.

The rational part of his mind knows this, but it’s being overpowered by its emotional counterpart.

His hands are clammy with sweat and his heart is beating fast as Illya tries to find his way back to the home of the von Trulsches’. This time, he gets lost and has to ask several passersby until he finds the right house.

Checking his watch, he learns he’s arrived fifteen minutes later than they’d agreed on. So far, he’s only spent very little time in the company of Gaby’s aunt, but she doesn’t seem like the sort who’s particularly forgiving if people are late. Something tells him Gaby’s uncle isn’t either.

His hunch proves correct. Rudolph and Waltraud von Trulsch greet him badly hidden disapproving glares. Gaby, on the other hand, seems exasperated with her relatives.

“I’m starting to think that we should have stayed in the hotel, too,” Gaby mutters in Russian. “You wouldn’t believe the things my aunt said to me. I’ll tell you later, but I was just moments away from giving her a piece of my mind before you came.”

Gaby introduces Illya to her uncle and he shakes hands with Illya. His grip is weak, his palm is uncomfortably warm and damp. It takes all Illya’s willpower not to flinch or, alternatively, squeeze that man’s hand as hard as he can and watch him squirm.

Illya forces himself to smile. “Pleased to meet you,” he says.

Gaby’s uncle doesn’t waste any time with false pleasantries. “Russian, huh?” he asks, giving him the once-over, clearly not intimidated by the height and weight advantage Illya has over him. “You don’t look Russian.”

Illya shares a confused look with Gaby. “Excuse me, I don’t want to be impertinent, but I didn’t know there was a certain ‘look’ associated with nationality,” he says in what he hopes comes across as politely puzzled.

He needn’t have worried since Uncle Rudy just shrugs. “I have a book on that subject. I’ll show you after dinner,” he says nonchalantly, taking his glasses off to clean them.

During dinner, the conversation is tense. Illya quickly realizes the best way to make it through dinner is to let Gaby’s uncle talk about whatever it is that he wants, and not criticize him openly. As far as reactions are concerned, bland, indulgent smiles seem to work best. At least that’s what Waltraud von Trulsch is doing. Illya never hears her say anything contradicting her husband’s opinions.

Gaby’s uncle's favorite topic seems to be politics in Germany. Illya pretends not to hear it when Rudy dishes out insults against the German Communist Party.

‘If you said similar things in Moscow in my presence, I’d be expected to arrest you. You’d find yourself in Siberia much sooner than you’d like,’ he thinks. ‘We have ways to deal with men like you that you wouldn’t even imagine.’

To stop her uncle from rattling off more of his political views, Gaby tries telling the story of the train accident. She embellishes their brief stay at the Lithuanian castle and talks about how fascinated she was by the Count and his Italian wife. “It’s such a beautiful language, don’t you agree, darling? I’d really love to see Rome one day!”

“Italy!” Uncle Rudy exclaims. “That country is on the right track! For years I’ve been saying that Germany needs its very own Mussolini. We have too many parties in this country, it’s a mess. Nothing but talking and debating all day, when what we need is a strong leader who _acts_.”

Gaby shares a miserable look with Illya. “I tried,” she mouths.

Uncle Rudy continues to dominate the conversation.

After dessert, Illya almost wishes he was back in Moscow. Compared to Rudolph von Trulsch, even backstabbing sycophants like Petrenko didn’t seem so bad anymore.

“Illya,” Rudy says while Waltraud is clearing the table and making a fuming Gaby help her. “Do you want a drink after dinner? A schnapps or two can help digestion along.”

He doesn’t wait for Illya’s answer and just puts two glasses on the table. He pours a generous amount of clear liquor in both.

“Thank you for the offer, but I have to decline,” Illya says. “I don’t drink.”

Rudy raises his eyebrows. “Unusual for a Russian, no?”

“Maybe so,” Illya says and crosses his arms, a sarcastic smile playing around his lips. “Isn’t it interesting to find out stereotypes are often just that - stereotypes?”

“More for me, then,” Rudy says, completely ignoring Illya’s comment. “I know this is going to be a little personal. But since you’re my nephew-in-law and I’m concerned for my niece’s well-being as well as… you see, from the moment I first saw you, you struck me as… A man of your stature, athletic, with Nordic features… I have a hard time believing you’re _Russian_.”

“I’ve never lived anywhere else so far,” he says. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“No, you misunderstand me. You see, in the end, it doesn’t matter where you grow up. The only thing that matters is the blood in your veins. Everything else, that’s just details - it’s in the genes. For example, my niece, your wife, she’s not a Russian woman.”

“So, she’s half-Russian, half-German. What’s your point?”

“Let me explain why she’s _not_ Russian. Gaby’s father, the late Udo Teller, came from a family that emigrated to Russia under the rule of Peter the Great, but they were Germans. My late sister, God bless her, married a German man and they had a German daughter. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“I’m afraid I do,” Illya mutters.

He thinks back to what he’s seen at home. Magazines urge people to send photographs of their babies as part of a competition for the ‘healthiest’ child. By that, of course, they mean the child fitting some predetermined, often non-sensical criteria.

Another example was the Romanov house rules, stipulating that a member of the Imperial Family must marry someone from the high nobility. Otherwise, they might risk being banned from the succession to the throne, or even become social outcasts among the nobles themselves - it had happened to one of Czar Nicholas II.’s brothers, as Illya knew.

Arbitrary rules, deciding who was worthy and who wasn’t. It wouldn’t have mattered how often he would have vowed he didn’t support the old regime, that he believed in the communist idea and the Soviet state. If it had been discovered that he was the son of a nobleman, a member of the old aristocracy, he would have been immediately sent to Siberia.

If he was lucky.

Possibly, he would have been executed after a public show trial – a warning example to anyone else trying to hide their ancestry in an unforgiving system.

In the meantime, Rudy has handed Illya a book, with the words that he might find quite informative and revelatory.

The cover shows a highly stylized image of a man and a woman next to each other. Both have light blond hair and piercing blue eyes. It takes him a few seconds to decipher the German title, but he can make out words like ‘racial hygiene’, ‘German’ and ‘valuable’. There’s a caption as well, reading ‘Healthy parents, healthy children!’.

Illya can’t contain his grimace. “Breeding people like dogs is neither interesting nor informative,” he says and hands Rudy the book back without further ado. “It’s just plain wrong.”

“Now, if you allow me,” Rudy says. He knocks back the content of one liquor glass, licks his lips, and leafs through the book. The page he shoves under Illya’s nose contains a table, categorizing different-looking men into ‘races’. “Look, the science says it very clearly. Your features just don’t fit for a Russian. Are you sure you don’t have any Nordic ancestry—"

“Perhaps,” Illya says slowly as he stands up from the table to put distance between him and Gaby’s uncle. “ _Perhaps_ there is nothing wrong with my ancestry, but everything wrong with your ‘science’. Have you considered that?”

Rudy drinks the liquor in the second glass, before also standing up, giving Illya a smugly defiant look. “I should have known that a communist wouldn’t appreciate the equity of aristocratic blood.”

Illya has the urge to laugh out loud, hysterically. Rudy doesn’t know Illya has aristocratic ancestors, too. (Although, he would have given pretty much everything just to get rid of that particular stain on his person.)

“If you’re so adamant that you don’t have any German ancestry, then I just hope my niece is going to realize her mistake soon enough and leave you,” Rudy says. “The blood of a racehorse should not be mixed with the blood of a carthorse.”

He says something after that, but Illya doesn’t hear it anymore. The blood rushing in his ears is too loud, drowning out the sound of the man’s words. His heart is racing, as though he’s just sprinted a mile. His fingers are shaking, twitching with the need to hurt someone, to destroy something. Carthorse… he wants to smash his fist into man’s face and show him exactly what it is that he’s been taught in the service of the OGPU.

Before he can do something stupid, there’s a crash in the kitchen. It sounds like broken dishes, flung towards the wall with full force.

He takes two, three steps into the direction of the kitchen, ready to interfere when Gaby rushes out of the kitchen. Both of her hands are balled into fists at her sides and she has a murderous expression on her face. “Illya, we’re leaving,” she says with clenched teeth. “I can’t believe it… I just can’t believe it!” She follows it up with a barrage of curses in Russian, German and English.

“What happened?” he asks, taking deep breaths to calm himself. At least one of them had to remain level-headed, and Gaby was too far gone on whatever had triggered her rage to think clearly.

She doesn’t seem to listen to him. “We’ll find Napoleon and stay in his room. It’ll be fine,” she mutters under her breath. “It’s going to be so much better than staying in this madhouse. It’s what we should have done in the first place.”

She takes Illya’s hand to drag him out of the living room. Since he’s stronger than her, he just stays rooted in the spot.

“What happened?” he asks. “Just tell me in Russian.”

Gaby stops, composes herself and brushes a few strands of hair out of her face. “My _dear aunt_ suggested I should stay with them and leave you, and I quote ‘while I still could’. I asked her what she meant by that and apparently, it means ‘before you get me pregnant’. If I happened to be ‘scared of leaving you’ because it was ‘already too late’, there were ‘options’.”

“Your uncle and I had a similar conversation,” Illya says. “I was only moments away from reacting just like you did.”

He looks around the room and sends a dirty look in both Rudy’s and Waltraud’s directions. “You’re right, let’s get out of here and find Napoleon.”

This time, he lets Gaby take his hand and lead him to their guest room.

“Now I’m really happy we haven’t unpacked anything yet,” Gaby says as Illya gets their suitcase ready. “What were they thinking?”

“It reminded me of home. Just here, it’s not about how much of a proletarian you are, but how much of a German you are, apparently,” Illya snorts as he snaps the buckles of the suitcase shut. “You’ve got everything? Your hat? Your coat?” he asks.

“Gaby, _Liebes_ , we know you might be ashamed, but you don’t have to stay with this ruffian if you don’t want to!” Uncle Rudy calls.

Gaby stops in the middle of buttoning up her coat, gives Illya wide-eyed look, and throws the door to the guest room wide open. “Come on,” she says, gesturing for him to follow her. “I need to get out of here.”

Illya quickly grabs their suitcase, his coat, and hat and follows Gaby. A small, irrational voice inside his head is panicking at the thought of not having both of his hands free immediately in case someone (Who? Gaby’s uncle? Ridiculous.) should attack them.

He follows Gaby down the stairs and through the corridor leading to the front door of the house. Gaby’s already clutching the doorknob in her hands, throwing the door open, when they hear Uncle Rudy again, calling down the stairs.

“Gaby, be reasonable!”

She turns around so quickly that Illya almost collides with her. “I _am_ being reasonable!” she yells at the top of her voice. She curses multiple times. “Illya?! Are you coming or not?” Gaby calls, her voice is shrill and cracking.

Shaking off his perplexity, Illya picks up the suitcase again and follows Gaby, who’s walking away from the house as quickly as she can, her heels clickety-clacking over the cobblestone.

He quickly catches up to her with a few long strides and refuses to look back at the street of neat houses from which they came.

“Is… is everything alright?” he asks and could kick himself just a moment later. Nothing is alright, of course. What a stupid question. “Do you want to talk about what just happened?” he tries again.

Gaby shakes her head, biting her bottom lip. “I want to go to the hotel and see Napoleon,” she says much calmer than just minutes ago.

She’s trembling. Illya wishes he could pull her into his arms and kiss it better, but for that, they first need to get to the hotel. He offers her his arm and lets Gaby take the lead.

In the lobby, he also lets Gaby handle the talk with the receptionist. Illya speaks German quite well, but he does so with an accent he’s never managed to shake. Gaby’s German is much better.

This is her mother’s hometown, he remembers. He feels inexplicably anguished at the thought of having antagonized some of the few relatives she has left.

Gaby informs him that Napoleon still hasn’t returned to his room, but they are more than welcome to wait for him in the lobby.

“I don’t like this,” Illya says as they sit down on one of the sofas in the lobby. “Why is buying a train ticket taking him so long?”

Gaby shrugs, tucking herself against Illya’s side. She stifles a yawn.

Illya puts his arm around her and pulls her a little closer, but still not close enough for his taste. They’re still in public.

“Do you want to get a room?” he asks. “You look tired.”

“No, I’m… it’s alright,” she says. “Please don’t bother.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods. Just a few seconds later, she closes her eyes and looks like she’s ready to doze off. Having her sit right next to him, his hand on her waist, it throws into sharp relief how small she is compared to him. She looks so fragile right now. Gaby’s told them that all ballet dancers were encouraged to remain as thin as possible, so her weight was completely normal for a dancer. 

Illya doesn’t necessarily agree with her, but he won’t argue.

When Napoleon finally arrives, Gaby has been napping for a good forty-five minutes.

Napoleon walks with the leisurely, collected pace that looks so effortlessly elegant. The first few weeks Illya has known Napoleon, he thought he was jealous of the charisma Napoleon radiated. At the time, Illya had not yet realized he wasn’t jealous of Napoleon but attracted to him. Once they’d progressed from ‘spying on each other’ to ‘sleeping with each other’, Napoleon admitted he’d practiced his gait in front of a mirror. Illya had called him vain for it, Napoleon called it being thorough.

However, Napoleon’s practiced nonchalance transforms into concern the minute he spots them in the lobby and approaches them.

“What happened?” Napoleon asks. He rests his hand on Illya’s shoulder for a moment, rubbing his thumb over the exposed skin of Illya’s neck for just a second before he pulls his hand back.

“We got into an argument with Gaby’s relatives and she wanted to leave,” Illya explains before he gently starts talking to Gaby to wake her up.

She furrows her brows and lets out a displeased sound, but when she spots Napoleon, she immediately sits up straight and rubs the sleep from her eyes. “How long have you been here?” she asks. “Has Illya already told you that we didn’t get along with my uncle and aunt?”

“Yes, he has,” Napoleon replies and gives Gaby a reassuring smile. “But you’re lucky, the bed in my room is big enough for three. Might be a bit of a tight squeeze, but we never had any problems with that in the past, right?”

“Are you sure they won’t notice that we’re staying in your room? Is it safe?” Illya mutters.

“As far as I’m concerned, I couldn’t care less,” Napoleon says with a shrug. “Nobody around here knows who we are. And if everything goes according to plan, the only thing they’re going to be talking about is how they saw Grand Duchess Maria when she was passing through Königsberg.”

“Are you sure about that?” Illya says, raising his eyebrows. “I’d think who a member of the Imperial Family spends the night with would be the topic that most people are going to be interested in.”

“Even then, it’s just gossip,” Napoleon counters. “Just let me deal with the rumors once we’ve managed to get rich. You’d both be awful at it, let’s be honest.”

“It’ll be easy for you since you don’t have a reputation you could lose,” Gaby teases and playfully wags her finger in Napoleon’s direction.

“I beg to differ,” Napoleon replies sarcastically. “I have a reputation as a great lover to uphold.”

That gets a laugh out of Gaby, and Illya breathes easier. If she can joke around again, then that’s probably a good sign. “Cowboy, did you buy train tickets for us?”

“Well, I’ve been informed that there’s been some sabotage as well as strikes. There are no trains to Berlin and there likely won’t be any for at least a week longer. So, I’ve got a car instead.”

“ _What_?”

“I’ve got us a car,” Napoleon repeats. “See, I’ve been asking around… we can easily make it from city to city and buy gas on the way. It’s going to be fine.”

Illya lets out a pained sound. “A train would have been so much easier.”

“Well, it’s that or taking a boat to Copenhagen, and even then, we’d still have to catch a train to Berlin at one point, so your cover isn’t blown prematurely,” Napoleon says, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Also, it’s a pretty good car, from what I can tell. It’s a Mercedes Benz - of course, it’s not a Packard like you’re used to, but I’m sure it’s going to get us to where we need to be. We can take turns driving, Peril.”

“I can drive, too,” Gaby says. “It doesn’t have to be only you two.”

“When did you learn how to drive?” Napoleon asks.

“I haven’t but you’re going to teach me how to drive,” Gaby says and shrugs. “Equality, right? How difficult can it be? I tried asking Misha, but I think he was too scared to do anything that you or your father might not like, Illya.”

“Fine, then we can all take turns,” Illya says, while Napoleon starts leading them to his room.

Napoleon’s room, as it turns out, is more of a suite. Not that Illya is going to complain that Napoleon has a preference for luxury, but he _does_ wonder how they’re going to pay for it. Probably with the money they’re hoping to get out of the Princess Scam.

Illya and Napoleon unpack the suitcase, looking for pajamas, while Gaby is lying down, saying her head is giving her trouble.

“Do you think you need a doctor?” Napoleon asks. “I could request one at the reception.”

She shakes her head. “No, I think I’m alright, I just need a little rest, as the doctor said.”

Gaby retires to the bedroom. Napoleon finds a chess set in the living room of the suite. He and Illya play a few games against each other with Illya winning all but one of them, and that only because Napoleon managed to distract him and break his concentration. 

* * *

The next morning, they’re having breakfast for three at the hotel.

Napoleon requests a newspaper from one of the waiters who are passing by their table. “Can’t hurt to stay informed,” he says and sips his coffee.

The waiter, a gangly boy who can’t be much older than eighteen, returns and hands Napoleon the newspaper. 

He starts reading it with a slightly puzzled expression on his face, sometimes he reads words or whole sentence fragments aloud until he can guess their meaning. His German is good for communicating and speaking in everyday situations, but newspapers, especially ones that seem to be aimed at a very educated audience like the one he’s reading, prove to be a little difficult for him.

Gaby has just requested a refill of coffee when Napoleon puts the newspaper down.

“We have a problem,” he says, pointing to an article that’s accompanied by the photograph of a woman.

The woman looks like she’s in her late twenties to early thirties. It’s hard to tell on the grainy black-and-white photography. She has dark hair, gathered at the back of her head in a chignon, a wide mouth, and large, bright eyes. 

Later, Gaby would claim the woman looks annoyed, while Napoleon would say, in his opinion, she’s smiling at the camera, albeit a bit awkwardly.

Illya thinks she just looks scared.

However, none of their opinions matter and the photograph of the woman is not what prompted Napoleon to declare the existence of a problem.

No, it’s the headline accompanying the article.

It reads: “Anastasia is Alive - Czar’s Youngest Daughter Found in Berlin?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented and/or left kudos on the last chapter! I really really appreciate your support! <333

_The photograph of the woman is not what prompted Napoleon to declare the existence of a problem._

_No, it’s the headline accompanying the article._

_It reads: “Anastasia is Alive - Czar’s Youngest Daughter Found in Berlin?”_

* * *

“This is a huge problem,” Illya mutters, furrowing his brows. “Let me read this.”

His frown deepens with each paragraph.

“What does it say?” Napoleon asks. “Your German is better than mine.”

“It’s not good,” Illya replies. “It says the son of the Czar’s physician and a cousin of the Czar are convinced she’s the real deal. The Czarina’s brother has met with her, but ‘remains skeptical’ and Waverly has refused to meet with her since he believes she’s an impostor.”

“Great,” Gaby says, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Just great.” She leans over Illya’s shoulder to peer at the newspaper. “I don’t understand how people can think she’s the real deal, she doesn’t even look like Anastasia. The nose is all wrong.” She points at the photograph of the woman. “It should be straighter. And do you see the mouth? It’s too wide.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow in appreciation. Gaby has really done her homework. “Does it say anything about her backstory?”

“About a year ago, she tried to commit suicide by drowning in Berlin,” Illya reads aloud, his finger following the lines of print. “She was put in a… in a… Gaby, help me out, please, what does that word mean?”

She angles herself so she can read the fine print. “Uh, that’s like an asylum or a sanatorium,” she says.

“Thank you. So, she was put in a sanatorium. At first, they called her “Miss Unknown” because she wouldn’t speak to anyone. Apparently, another patient told her she resembled Anastasia and that’s when she started telling people she was a Grand Duchess.” Illya snorts. “A very likely story. A desperate woman, who needs help, and instead she’s losing herself in delusions. The press and the people are encouraging her because they want to believe in a modern fairytale.”

“Does she say anything about her escape?” Napoleon asks. “We have a foolproof story in place. Does she?”

“It doesn’t look like she does,” Illya says, shaking his head before he reads on. “No, she doesn’t. She says one of the Bolshevist guards took pity on her and he helped her flee. Please note, there’s not a word about the fate of her siblings. Anyway, she and the guard allegedly ran away to Bucharest and lived under the name Tchaikovsky - very creative, if you ask me. During her time in Romania, she went by the name Anya Tchaikovskaya.”

“Well, then it should be easy,” Gaby says with a shrug. “If I recall correctly, the Queen of Romania is my first cousin once removed, or something like that. Well, not my first cousin once removed, but ‘my’... you know what I mean.”

“That’s right. Queen Marie’s grandfather was Czar Alexander II.,” Illya says, squeezing Gaby’s hand.

“So, if she really were Anastasia, she’d have known she’s related to the Queen and probably would have appealed to her for help,” Napoleon says.

“That’d make sense,” Gaby says and steals a slice of ham from Napoleon’s plate, eating it while she quickly over the next few paragraphs of the article. She swallows before she continues: “But apparently she didn’t do it, or at least, they don’t mention it here. She says she allegedly married a tailor. They had a son in 1924, who, you know, would be the rightful ruler of the Russian throne, in the words of this article.”

Napoleon narrows his eyes and nods to himself. “That’s a clever idea. Why didn’t we think of that? Where is the alleged heir to the throne now?”

Illya’s eyes are rapidly moving from side to side, scanning the article for any helpful information. After a few seconds, he rolls his eyes. “Typical. The heir to the throne they’re mentioning likely doesn’t exist.”

“She says both the guard who helped her escape and her husband died during unrest in Bucharest. Since she couldn’t support her child on her own, she gave him away to an orphanage. She says she named him Nikolay, after her father, but the state officials likely changed his name. She doesn’t know if there are any records, she was in such a hurry to leave the country.”

“Okay, so we’ve got what? Two dead men who can’t confirm anything and a hypothetical child who might be somewhere in Romania? It starts to sound as believable as Waverly’s story about the Czarevich,” Napoleon says. “How did she even get to Berlin?”

“She says she came here to look for support from her relatives. However, then she got so desperate and decided she didn’t want to live with the burden of her past any longer. She wanted to suicide by drowning herself,” Gaby chips in and reads the last paragraph of the article out loud: “‘Anya Tchaikovskaya, as she wants to be called, is currently staying with Alexander Vinciguerra and his wife, Victoria. They are an Italian couple of lower nobility in Berlin, where they aid her in her ambition to be recognized as who she really is - the Grand Duchess Anastasia. Relatives and acquaintances of the Czar have come forward, some in support of her claim, some in vehement opposition. The most vocal among the skeptics is the former tutor of the Czar’s children, Alexander Waverly, who proclaimed he would investigate the matter of the 'false Anastasia' and publish his findings in a book.’”

Illya snorts and mutters something under his breath that can’t be flattering.

“She’s undoubtedly an impostor,” Napoleon says, taking the newspaper back to re-read the article. “It looks like we’ll have to get Waverly on our side if we want to have a chance of getting the money.”

“But Waverly _has_ to oppose her claims,” Gaby shrugs. “He’s been making good money off letting people believe he’s the only one who knows what happened to the Czar’s family. If a Grand Duchess showed up, then he’d be exposed. But how are we going to get him on our side?”

“Blackmail,” Illya says, finishes his tea and grimaces. “If he supports us, we won’t tell anyone he killed the Czarevich to save his own life. We get the money and his reputation isn’t ruined. That’s a… what would you call it, Cowboy? A win-win situation?”

“That might work,” Napoleon says slowly.

“It would still be better if he _believed_ I’m Grand Duchess Maria,” Gaby says. “I mean, he could accuse us of lying. Who says that he really shot the prince?”

“I _saw_ the body,” Illya hisses under his breath. “And I stole the photographs we took from the OGPU archive. I have proof!”

Gaby crosses her arms in front of her chest. “I know that, but does Waverly know that, too? And would he even accept photographs as proof? From Waverly’s point of view, he could easily defend himself. After all, it could be the skeleton of any boy. What proof do you have that it’s the Czarevich?”

“I have the testimony of the bodyguard who accompanied Waverly and the Czarevich. I have the testimony of various villagers who witnessed two men traveling with a sickly blond boy. I have the fact that we found precious jewels among the remains of the boy’s clothes, an iron reserve the Romanov’s had sewn into their clothes for emergencies—”

“Illya, you don’t have to convince _me_ ,” Gaby cuts him off. “I’m saying it’s your word against his, he can just as easily dismiss the proof you have by saying it comes from a Soviet agent. The OGPU is not the most trustworthy source of information, is it? Documents can be falsified, and people can lie. Waverly did it in his own book, as you said! We need to offer him something other than threats and intimidation if we want him to support our claim.”

“Well, what would you suggest we do?”

Gaby throws her hands into the air. “How should I know?”

Napoleon has observed their argument, not adding anything to it, while he was studying the article again. More specifically, he was interested in the portrait of the alleged Anastasia and the small photo below it. It showed an attractive couple in their early thirties – Alexander and Victoria Vinciguerra.

“Maybe we don’t need Waverly,” Napoleon says, pointing to the photograph of the Vinciguerras. “We could use them, too.”

Illya furrows his brows until they’re almost touching. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“As you said, we can prove Waverly was involved in the assassination of the Czarevich. But we have more than that, don’t we?

Gaby leans forward, peering into Napoleon’s eyes, intrigued. “Are you implying…?”

Napoleon smirks. “We also have the files detailing the death of the other Romanov children.”

Illya narrows his eyes but doesn’t protest.

Napoleon takes that as a sign to keep going. “The Vinciguerras claim she’s Anastasia,” he says. “But we have proof that she _cannot_ be Anastasia. Please consider, just for a moment, that Gaby is _really_ Maria, Anya Tchaikovskaya is _really_ Anastasia, and they meet in Berlin. Can you imagine the impact of such a story? It’d be straight out of a fairytale! Sisters, torn apart by war and revolution, the Little Pair reunited! We’d have to work together with the Vinciguerras, of course, but we could probably make a deal with them. We can split the money, support each other’s claims and maybe also discredit Waverly in the process. It’s the perfect plan!”

“That is so outlandishly bold, it might just work,” Illya says with a grin.

“It’d be the con of the century,” Napoleon replies, satisfied with himself. 

“Okay, so we’ve got a new plan? Get to Berlin, find Anya and the Vinciguerras, tell them we want in on their con and negotiate a deal with them?” Gaby asks. “Then I guess we shouldn’t waste any more time and start packing.”

* * *

The road trip to Berlin is exactly as comfortable as Napoleon imagined, which means it’s not comfortable at all.

The bruise around Gaby’s eye has faded considerably. It has taken on a hue of yellowish-green. A few days ago, they visited a doctor.

The doctor had removed the stitches from the wound, saying that it had healed up nicely. 

Since Gaby’s eye is no longer swollen shut, Illya and Napoleon are taking turns teaching her how to drive.

Gaby is learning rapidly and keeps asking technical questions about the car that make Napoleon’s head spin. 

“I can teach you everything there is to know about different safe models and how to open them using unconventional methods,” Napoleon says one evening during dinner. “But I don’t know all the ins and outs of a car, I’m sorry.”

Their evenings are usually spent relaxing in the rooms they manage to get at local hotels or inns. Traveling by car, as it turns out, is quite a bit more exhausting than taking a train.

Gaby always buys a couple of reputable newspapers as well as gossip rags to scour them for news about the false Anastasia. Illya is usually exercising if he’s not playing chess against himself or Napoleon. If the former is the case, Napoleon takes care of planning out the next day’s travel route and tries to get their stories straight. He also tries to come up with possible ways of combining the false Anastasia’s backstory with that of their false Maria.

When they finally arrive in Berlin, they’re more than a little travel-weary. Courtesy of Napoleon’s dollars, they take advantage of the weak German currency and they rent a nice room in a good part of the city.

Illya and Gaby send a telegram to Oleg right away. They invent a story about how their travels were interrupted, but that they have no finally arrived in Berlin and are ready to enjoy their honeymoon. While composing the message, Illya hadn’t been able to hide the guilt on his face and Napoleon had almost been tempted to say something. Even though Napoleon has never personally met Oleg Kuryakin, Napoleon feels indebted to him. After all, Oleg Kuryakin gave his adoptive son the possibility to flee, thus saving the life of the man Napoleon loves.

After a good night’s sleep, Napoleon suggests the first thing they should do is go out and buy new, fitted clothes for the three of them.

“Look, I’ve met dozens of people who look exactly like the Vinciguerras,” Napoleon says at breakfast, after Gaby questions why they need to look so chic. “If we want them to take us seriously, we need to look a certain way. And by 'a certain way', I mean _their_ way.”

“The false Anastasia doesn’t look very glamorous, though,” she points out. “In fact, she looks scared."

New photos have surfaced in the newspapers, each showing the same gaunt and confused looking woman.

“It could be a trick for the photographers,” Illya throws in. “Making sure she gets the sympathy of the public on her side if you know what I mean.”

“The evil royals against the poor, hapless princess who just wants to get her name back and be recognized for who she is?” Gaby asks, taking a sip of coffee. “That’s good. Why don’t we use that spin for me?”

“I think we all agree you wouldn’t fit the role of a ‘poor, hapless princess’,” Napoleon counters.

“And you’re the expert, Cowboy, aren’t you?” she asks.

“Well, I like to think of myself as such, yes,” Napoleon admits. “And in my experience, it’s quite often the clothes that make the man. Or the woman, as it may be. In any case, the Vinciguerras look like they know it, too.”

Illya cocks his head, appearing interested. “What makes you say that?”

“Their background. They’re the classic definition of _nouveau riche_. Alexander’s father owns a shipping company, but they’ve only become wealthy once his friend Mussolini started giving him more and more work. Ten years ago, I was a young spy in Berlin. At the time, there’d been hyperinflation going on. Everything was incredibly cheap if you had foreign currency. Vinciguerra Sr. exploited that situation and bought a lot of industrial plants on the cheap. Xenophobia had been rampant. Turns out a lot of the Germans didn’t approve of the Italian moving in and buying up all the German companies and industries.”

“Okay, but what you’re getting is that they’re not… what?” Gaby asks.

“They have money, but they don’t _come_ from money,” Napoleon explains. “Sort of the exact opposite of your family, Gaby. They’re aristocrats, but since the family fortune has been squandered, they don’t have any money.”

“Of course,” Gaby says, rolling her eyes. “I keep forgetting that I should consider it gauche when someone has to work for their money, being a Grand Duchess and all that.”

Napoleon shrugs. “Have you ever heard of anybody getting rich with honest labor?”

Illya stifles a laugh. “Quiet, Cowboy, or people are going to think that your time in the Soviet Union has rubbed off on you.”

“You misunderstand me, I have every intention of getting rich,” he says. “Let’s call it liberating the wealthy Romanovs from the heavy burden of their inheritance.”

“Practice that a little more and you could write official propaganda,” Illya says, raising his teacup in a mock toast to Napoleon. “You’re rather talented at making crime sound like a worthwhile course of action.”

“You mean I have a talent for corrupting?” he asks and leans back in his chair, smirking.

“ _I_ was ready to desert before I ever enjoyed any of your talents,” Gaby says, with a spark in her eye and a sly undertone. “But it seems to have worked in the case of Illya.”

“What can I say, it’s all a matter of the right incentive,” Napoleon says and winks at Illya.

“Back to the topic at hand,” Illya says, demonstratively clearing his throat. “The Vinciguerras. If they don’t agree to work out a deal with us, what are we going to do? Threaten them with exposing their false princess as a fraud?”

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t agree to work with us. I’m sure I can play a more convincing Grand Duchess than a girl they just fished out of the water after she tried to commit suicide.” Gaby finishes her meal and puts her cutlery aside. She dabs her mouth with a napkin, before continuing, “I’ve heard the supposed princess doesn’t even speak Russian.”

“What does she speak, then?” Illya asks.

“German with an accent and a little bit of English. Some papers say she knows French, some say she doesn’t, or that she only understands it, but doesn’t speak it. In the end, that doesn’t matter very much. Not being able to speak Russian is the weakest point. How would we be able to spin that?”

“Say that she’s so affected by the suffering she was subjected to by the Bolsheviks, that she refuses to speak their language?” Napoleon suggests.

“This is bullshit, and you know it,” Illya mutters, not loud enough to provoke any miffed glances from the other guests at the restaurant, but more than loud enough for Napoleon to hear it.

“Do you have a better idea?” Napoleon asks.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Then we’ll play it by ear, I suppose,” Gaby says. “Time to meet the Vinciguerras.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fake Anastasia is heavily based on the most famous Anastasia impostor Anna Anderson, although I tweaked some details to better fit this story. My sources include:
> 
>   * I listened to an episode of the German podcast Hoaxilla: [Episode #85 - Anastasia Romanowa](https://www.hoaxilla.com/hoaxilla-85-anastasia-romanowa/) (they also made an episode about [Rasputin](https://www.hoaxilla.com/hoaxilla-27-rasputin/))
>   * Here is a [quick overview](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oR5z7DXlWXs%20) re: Anna Anderson (in French, but English subtitles are available)
>   * A [documentary](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rk_mX7A7r60&t=692s) which includes footage of Anna Anderson and her husband - please note that they're unable to tell the Grand Duchesses apart when they're looking at a picture of the Imperial Family!
>   * A few articles written in support of Anna Anderson's claim (as you probably can guess, they didn't age well): 1, [2](http://www.jstor.org/stable/25110655)
> 



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's left kudos and commented on the last chapter! I appreciate your support!
> 
> Also, a quick note: I will be taking a short break from updating this fic - I need to figure out the rest of the plot and unfortunately, I won't be able to stick to weekly updates. If everything goes well, I'll be back to a regular weekly update schedule at the beginning of March!

Between the three of them, Gaby is clearly the most excited at the prospect of visiting a race track in Berlin. During his stay in Berlin the early twenties, Napoleon has been there a few times. At the time there hadn’t been any exciting races – the German economy had been in dire straits and money had been tight.

The economy has improved since he’d last been to Berlin, or so Napoleon has heard. But he still sees men wearing posters around their neck, begging for employment, and veterans in the street, crippled by war, with their hat upturned, begging for loose change.

Napoleon shakes his head to clear his thoughts.

The state of the German economy shouldn’t preoccupy him. What counts is meeting Alexander Vinciguerra, and that’s why they’re going to the race track.

Vinciguerra is a hobbyist race driver. He’s already earned himself the nickname of “Mad Italian” already if bar gossip is to be believed. More than once, Napoleon has heard the phrase ‘Vinciguerr’s going to break his neck if he keeps going like that.’ That’s good news. It means Vinciguerra doesn’t shy away from a high gamble. Of course, it could also mean that he’s irresponsible and not aware of the stakes… Napoleon decides to give him the benefit of the doubt for now.

Illya seems to think it’s all a waste of time.

“We don’t need to go to the race track. We figure out Vinciguerra’s address the old-fashioned way, go to them and tell them what we want,” he said over breakfast. “That would be so much easier. The race track could be a waste of time.”

Illya caved in when Gaby insisted she wanted to see a car race.

The race track is called the AVUS – an abbreviation for a long, complicated German expression. Once they get there, Napoleon feels slightly nostalgic, Illya appears to be unimpressed, and Gaby seems a little disappointed.

“I thought there would be more turns,” she says. “It doesn’t look all that exciting, does it?”

“It’s not,” Napoleon replies with a grin. “There are much more interesting race tracks. Once we’re rich, we can visit them all, if you’d like.”

The track might not be that difficult, but the cars look like killing machines. Napoleon prefers the elegant automobiles you can see on the streets to the loud and smelly race cars.

All the obvious drawbacks don’t seem to matter to Gaby. She quickly gets over her initial disappointment when she hears the roaring motors.

It’s not a relatively unimportant race, one of the spectators tells them as they take their seats. However, they can expect some impressive speeds and then he starts rattling off facts about the competitors and cars.

“I’ve heard Alexander Vinciguerra is driving today, too?” Napoleon asks.

The man rolls his eyes and drops a few disparaging remarks about Vinciguerra’s character. “And have you seen his wife? A right Valkyrie. Nearly as tall as your friend, here,” he says, gesturing to Illya. “She’s British, or so I’ve heard. She married her husband for the money, of course. She must have put a spell on him because no sane man would touch a woman like that with a ten-foot pole.”

“You seem very well informed,” Illya says with an edge in his voice that signals the conversation has morphed into an interrogation without the other man noticing it.

“Well, I have to be,” he says, taking off his hat for a moment to run a hand through his hair. “I work for Mercedes, you know? Vinciguerra offered us a lot of money if we let him drive for our team. I’m here to see if he’s a good enough driver.”

“But you don’t like it,” Napoleon says. “Do you?”

The man shrugs. “Would you? Truth be told, the company could really use the money, but you didn’t hear that from me, alright? I mean, who wants to be dependent on the whims of some rich, airhead playboy? If a driver has all the power and calls the shots, it’s going to poison the atmosphere in the team after a while.”

His tirade continues like that for a few minutes.

“Sir,” Napoleon interjects after an especially inappropriate comment regarding Vinciguerra’s nationality. “You wouldn’t be able to introduce us to Alexander Vinciguerra?”

“I suppose… but why would I do that?”

“Let’s just say I have a business proposal for him. In case it’s successful, it’d probably distract Vinciguerra to such an extent that he’s not going to bother your company again. Additionally, I’d be happy to invest in your company to make up for what you’d lose by not getting Vinciguerra on your team.”

“And how do I know I can trust you?”

“I am perfectly willing to work out a contract with Mercedes. Still, to even have a chance of my business proposal being a success, I need to meet Vinciguerra first, don’t I?”

Napoleon continues to sweet-talk the man. He’s a spy, so he’s used to subtly manipulate people. It was part of the job description. Still, sometimes Napoleon finds it frightening how far flattery, brown-nosing and a few well-chosen lies could get you.

Just when Napoleon is sure he’s got the Mercedes manager to a point where he’ll readily introduce him to Vinciguerra, he spots an awfully familiar face in the crowd.

Napoleon flinches, barely able to suppress a curse.

“What’s wrong?” Gaby asks, laying a hand on his arm.

“Do you see that man over there?” Napoleon says in Russian, hoping the automobile manager can’t understand it. “He’s—"

“We have a problem. I just spotted Waverly over there,” Gaby interrupts him. “What is he doing here?”

“Hoping to meet with Vinciguerra, probably,” Illya snarls and stands up. “I’m going to have a talk with him.”

“Illya, sit down,” Gaby hisses. 

Much to Napoleon’s astonishment, he follows her order.

“We can’t start trouble now, not when we’re so close to meeting potential business partners,” Gaby says to Illya before she shifts her attention back to Napoleon. “And I think Waverly’s spotted you. He’s on his way here.”

This time, Napoleon resists the urge to curse and instead tries to reassure the Mercedes manager. “Sir, I leave you in the company of my highly competent partners. They will handle the talks with Vinciguerra. Meet Illya Zhukov and his wife Gabriella,” he says quickly. “I’ve just spotted a former acquaintance of mine and I think he wants to talk to me. I’ll be right back.”

He stands up and makes his way over to Waverly. Seeing him again after nine years comes as a bit of a shock. The last decade has left undeniable traces on him. He has a lot more wrinkles than Napoleon can remember, and his brown hair is going gray at an alarming rate.

Back when they’d first met, Waverly had still been a very attractive man. The opium habit he’d picked up after he’d finally managed to flee from Soviet Russia in the 1920s hadn’t yet started to do damage to his features. If the rumors were to be believed, Waverly has since moved on to opium’s purified sister, heroin.

Still, the half-smirk on his face as he sees Napoleon has remained unchanged. It’s the exact same smirk he’d sported when Napoleon chatted him up in one of the wilder bars of Berlin. With the boyish features Napoleon still had in his early twenties, it had been easy to attract the attention of older, moneyed people. It hadn’t taken much to convince Waverly to take Napoleon back to his hotel room. 

“I can’t believe it,” Napoleon says jovially. “Alexander Waverly! How long has it been?”

Waverly smiles wryly and shakes Napoleon’s hand. “Napoleon,” he greets him. “I see the years have been kind to you. That’s a bit more than I can say about myself.”

“Fishing for compliments already?” Napoleon asks as he releases Waverly’s hand.

“Please don’t get the wrong idea,” Waverly says and drops his voice. “I’m not interested in stirring up old stories or old relations, as the case might be. I hope you took good care of the pocket watch you nicked when we last met. In fact, I’d be rather miffed about it, if you hadn’t. It was quite a valuable item, you see.”

“I figured,” Napoleon replies. “And I took very good care of it,” he adds, producing the watch. It’s a beautiful piece of horology. While Napoleon had initially helped himself to the watch with the intention of selling it, he’d grown too fond of it and couldn’t bear to part with it. 

Waverly takes it from his hand, turning the watch over in his hand. For a second, he stares at Napoleon, before he remembers to compose himself. “Thank you,” Waverly says, clearly emotional. “I thought I’d never see the watch again. It was a present from the Czar to the Czarevich, it’s invaluable.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow. “If the watch belonged to the Czarevich, how come you had it?”

“I wrote a book on the matter, and if you’d read it, you’d know I did everything in my power to ensure the safety of the Czarevich,” Waverly says. “It would have been too dangerous to let him keep the watch. I might as well have put a target on the boy’s back if I hadn’t taken the watch myself. The Bolsheviks are ruthless, Napoleon. I had no other choice.”

“Right,” Napoleon mumbles, thinking back to the photograph of a child’s skull with a bullet hole in it. Waverly did a lot more than put a target on the boy’s back, but Napoleon mustn’t show his hand too quickly. “What brings you to the race-track?” he asks instead. “I wouldn’t have thought you’re a fan of car racing.”

“I’m sure you’re well aware of the feud I have with an Italian couple named Vinciguerra,” Waverly says. He scrunches up his nose for a moment, as though he’s smelling something unpleasant. “I’ve decided to follow them around for a bit. Sooner or later, they’re bound to do or say something that exposes their act.”

“Are you going to meet with the alleged Grand Duchess?” Napoleon asks. “If she’s the real Anastasia, you would recognize each other, wouldn’t you?”

“I believe it’d be a waste of time,” Waverly says with a shrug. “Granted, I suppose she’s one of the better impostors, but they all give themselves away in the end.”

“Are you absolutely sure it’s not Anastasia? After all, you’ve known her when she was only a child. People change a lot when they grow up,” Napoleon says in a low voice, leaning a little closer to Waverly.

“I am completely confident that woman is not Grand Duchess Anastasia,” Waverly replies. “And it’s an insult to the memory of the Imperial Family that she’s bold enough to call herself Anastasia.”

“So, in your opinion, they’re all dead? The Imperial Family, I mean?” Napoleon asks, closely gauging Waverly’s reaction.

“I already told you, I wrote a book—,” Waverly begins, but Napoleon holds up a hand to silence him.

“You wrote a book, yes,” he throws in. “But I want you to tell me your honest opinion, not what you wrote in your book.”

“My ‘honest opinion’ is identical to the contents of my book. I have reason to believe that all the members of the Imperial Family are dead, except for the Czarevich. He’s alive in a secret location in Russia. He’s adopted a false identity.”

Napoleon resists the urge to roll his eyes at the blatant lies. “Do you know where I spent the last year?” he asks. “In Moscow.”

Waverly frowns. “Why have you been to Moscow?” he asks, not able to hide the suspicious undertone in his voice.

“The American government sent me there as a punishment. They thought I’d been spending too much money on my missions.”

“I can’t imagine how they got that impression,” Waverly snorts. “So, you’ve lived in the Soviet Union. Did you defect? Did the Bolsheviks tell you to murder me? Or are you supposed to torture me until I reveal the location of the Czarevich? If that’s your goal, then you’re out of luck. I’ll never tell you.”

“Are you sure?” Napoleon asks, deciding to give Waverly one last chance to admit the truth. “Just so you know, I’m not working for the Soviet Union. The Bolsheviks didn’t turn me into a double agent. However, during my time in Moscow, I did my research and I know what you did to the Czarevich. I can prove it, too. If you want to discuss what I might do with that knowledge, I suggest we meet in a more private setting.”

“You… how did you… but he’s… I made sure—,” Waverly stammers, his face rapidly paling as he’s losing his composure. “How on Earth did you manage to find him?”

“Well, I didn’t find him. An OGPU agent did.”

“An OGPU agent?” Waverly gasps before he intentionally takes a deep breath. “I don’t believe you. If the Czarevich had been discovered by the OPGU, it would have been front-page news.”

“The Party values discretion,” Napoleon counters.

“And miss the chance to stage a show trial against the rightful heir to the Russian throne? I don’t think so,” Waverly says dismissively. “I’m sorry, but I need actual evidence before I believe any of your claims.”

Napoleon opens his mouth to reply, but an argument is escalating at the side of the racetrack. He can make out a few insults in Italian and Russian in the raised voices and angry shouts. Craning his neck, he can see Gaby standing next to one of the cars parked in the pit.

A tall, dark-haired and tanned man is talking to her.

Napoleon gets a glimpse of Illya, who’s walking away from the scene at a brisk pace. His fingers are twitching, suggesting he’s furious.

Waverly follows Napoleon’s line of sight. “Speak of the devil,” he mumbles. “Alexander Vinciguerra.”

“And it appears he’s taken an interest in my girlfriend,” Napoleon says.

“She’s your girlfriend?” Waverly asks. “Does Vinciguerra know she’s taken? Not that it would deter him, I suppose. He’s got quite a reputation, you know? Not unlike you.”

“I should intervene, I think,” Napoleon replies. “Gaby doesn’t look too amused by Vinciguerra’s advances.”

“Are you going to go down and what? ‘Defend your claim’ or something ridiculous like that?”

“Gaby’s perfectly able to defend herself,” Napoleon says. “But it would be better for Vinciguerra if she didn’t if you catch my drift. He does have a rather pretty face. It would be a shame if something happened to it.”

“In any case, thank you for the rewarding experience,” Waverly says and pats his pocket, into which he slipped the pocket watch earlier.

“I assume you’ll be in the city for a little while longer?” Napoleon asks, tipping his hat. “Then I’m sure we’ll meet again. Have a nice day.”

Waverly echoes his goodbye.

Napoleon walks away from the encounter with a spring in his step. It could have gone a lot worse.

Now, the only thing that’s giving Napoleon a slight headache is the annoyance etched into Gaby’s features, which gets ever more obvious the closer he gets to the scene.

Vinciguerra is a mustachioed man a bit taller than Napoleon, tanned, with well-groomed black hair and an easy smile. He’s talking to the manager Napoleon spoke with earlier. The manager is unsuccessfully hiding his exasperation.

“What’s going on here?” Napoleon asks, giving a nod to the manager and lightly touching Gaby’s arm. “See anything you like?” he adds in Russian, winking at her.

“The car is quite interesting. The driver’s annoying,” Gaby says.

“Is that why Peril stormed off?”

“Yes! I didn’t think he’s the type to get jealous, you know since he never seemed to have a problem with sharing before,” Gaby says. “Vinciguerra isn’t even my type.”

Napoleon rolls his eyes. “Really? Tall, dark, and handsome?” he asks. “What’s not to like?”

“You know what I mean.” She playfully swats at his chest. “Anyway, I told him to take a walk and come back when he’s calmed down.”

“Signor Solo?” Alexander Vinciguerra asks, clapping Napoleon on the shoulder. “I’ve been told you want a word with me?”

“That would be excellent, yes,” Napoleon responds in Italian.

“That one, huh?” Vinciguerra asks, unsubtly gesturing to Gaby. “She’s certainly beautiful, but a friendly word of advice between two gentlemen: Keep your hands off her.”

“I apologize. I wasn’t aware she belonged to you,” Napoleon says.

“Well, not to me, she doesn’t,” Vinciguerra says, eyeing Gaby with barely disguised interest. “She’s married, you see. Big bloke. Russian. Looks like he’s going to beat the living daylights out of you if you so much as look at him the wrong way.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Napoleon replies. “However, I’m not afraid of a little challenge. After all, how should I know this mysterious Russian husband actually exists? You could have been making him up so I wouldn’t make any advances. I suppose we’ll see which one of us she prefers.”

Vinciguerra snorts and gives Napoleon the once-over. “I doubt either of us is going to get lucky,” he says. “She’s into vicious blonds. Cigarette?”

“Thank you.” Napoleon accepts the cigarette from him. “By the way, I take it your wife could also be described as a vicious blonde, couldn’t she?”

“What did you say about my wife?”

“Nothing. But I have read newspaper articles and I know quite a bit about you,” Napoleon says, smirking in a way that’s bound to rile Vinciguerra up. “You’re currently playing host to a woman who pretends to be Anastasia Romanova, former Grand Duchess of Russia.”

“She doesn’t pretend to be Anastasia, she is Anastasia.”

“Oh, is she?” Napoleon asks. “In that case, Signor Vinciguerra, I have a business proposal for you.”

* * *

After a long fruitful discussion with Alexander Vinciguerra, they both return to the pit. Vinciguerra tells the waiting manager that he needs a bit of time to think about a possible collaboration. Another business opportunity has presented itself and is going to keep him occupied.

Napoleon winks at the manager when Vinciguerra isn’t looking.

He finds an anxious Gaby and a sullen Illya a little while away from the race track.

“I have news,” Napoleon says when he rejoins them, kissing Gaby on the cheek and letting his hand linger on Illya’s lower back for a second. “We’ll meet with the Vinciguerras and their alleged Grand Duchess tomorrow afternoon. That is if Alexander manages to convince his wife, which he said he would. Come on, Peril, lighten up. What’s bugging you?”

Illya just shakes his head, stuffs hands into the pockets of his jacket and wanders off. Napoleon shares a puzzled look with Gaby, but she’s as confused as he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The obligatory research notes ;)
> 
>   * The race-track is based on the [Automobil-Verkehrs- und Übungsstraße (AVUS)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/AVUS) in Berlin.
>   * Vinciguerra Sr. was slightly inspired by [Hugo Stinnes](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hugo_Stinnes) (a German entrepreneur who profited off hyperinflation in the early 1920s). The connection to car-racing was inspired by his daughter [Clärenore](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cl%C3%A4renore_Stinnes), who was indeed a German car racer in the 1920s and, in 1929, became the first person to have circumnavigated the world by automobile.
> 



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with an update at the beginning of March, as promised! Thanks to everyone who's left comments and kudos on the previous chapter <333 There's more info re: update schedule in the end notes!
> 
> And there's a Harry Potter reference in this chapter - let me know if you can spot it! ;)

Gaby’s night is short, and she sleeps uneasily. It’d be reasonable to assume she’s anxious because she’s going to meet the Vinciguerras and the woman pretending to be Anastasia. If their plan works she’ll have to pretend to be the false Anastasia’s sister for the rest of her life.

However, that’s not the reason for her insomnia.

No, the reason is Illya.

He’s tossing and turning, jostling Napoleon and her awake more than just a few times.

“Relax, Peril,” Napoleon mutters at one point. “Everything will go according to plan, I promise.” The last part of his sentence is cut off by a yawn. “Now go back to sleep.”

* * *

Once the morning sun has risen over Berlin, it becomes immediately obvious as to why Illya had been so restless during the night.

He’s lying in bed and it’s hard to decide what’s whiter - the sheets or his face.

“Do you need a doctor?” Gaby asks quietly. “You look like… well, Napoleon would say you look like shit.”

“It’s just a migraine,” he slurs, pain bending his words out of shape. “It’ll go away.”

Napoleon searches through their luggage and hands Illya a small bottle of ‘Aspirin’. “Here you go,” he says.

Illya takes it from Napoleon’s hand, unscrews the lid with shaking fingers and drops a couple of pills into his palm.

“Do you need some water?”

Illya shakes his head and swallows the pills dry before sinking back into bed, pulling the sheets halfway over his head. “I’ll get better. Just… I need rest—”

“Alright Peril,” Napoleon says, sits on the side of the bed and runs his fingers through Illya’s sweaty hair. “Gaby and I are going down to have breakfast. Should we bring you anything?”

“No, I feel sick,” Illya mumbles into the pillows.

“We’ll be back soon,” he says. “If you get thirsty, there’s a pitcher of water on the nightstand. The aspirin is right there, too, if you need more.”

Gaby stands by, watching the whole scene rather helplessly. “Is there anything I can do?”

Napoleon stands up, after squeezing Illya’s hand, and offers her his arm to go down to breakfast. “Not really. Peril needs rest and silence. He’ll be fine tomorrow,” he says, quietly closing the bedroom door.

“Are you sure he’ll be fine?” Gaby asks quietly, looping her arm through Napoleon’s. “Shouldn’t we call a doctor? He looked awful.”

A few days ago, he showed up with a ring on his finger. It looks identical to the golden wedding band Illya’s wearing. Neither Illya nor Gaby commented on it and Napoleon hasn’t offered an explanation. However, Gaby has caught him giving the ring a curious look whenever he thought nobody was looking.

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do,” Napoleon replies, sounding uncharacteristically defeated. “He said he’s tried everything under the sun to get rid of the headaches, but they keep coming. I’m inclined to believe him.”

They arrive in the hotel’s dining room and inform the waiter that their companion is sick. Thus, it’ll just be the two of them at breakfast today.

“Peril thinks it has something to do with the accident he had as a child,” Napoleon says while he’s perusing the menu. “You’ve seen the scar on his temple, right?” he adds.

Gaby nods. She reaches up to touch the wound she sustained in the train accident. It’s still covered by a small bandage. “He said we’d match.”

Napoleon gives a signal to the waiter and they order their food.

“Does Illya get those headaches often?” Gaby asks. “I mean… it might be a sign he’s really ill.”

“As I said, Peril believes the migraines started after he hit his head.”

“But sounds awful,” Gaby says, putting a spoonful of sugar in her coffee.

“I’m guessing he just overtaxed himself,” Napoleon says as he warily looks at the bread rolls on his plate. “I miss American breakfasts. When we finally get an apartment, I’ll cook every morning, I swear.”

“Once you and Illya get an apartment,” Gaby corrects him, picks up her knife and starts to cut an apple into manageable slices. “I’ll be off pretending to be a Romanov.” She shudders. “I just hope that I’ll get along with my supposed sister.”

“From what Alexander Vinciguerra told me, she seems to be… a difficult person.” Napoleon says as he butters his bread roll, adding a few slices of cheese and ham each.

Gaby finds herself observing the movements of his hands. She shouldn’t find such a mundane action fascinating, but Napoleon has elegant hands and nimble fingers, honed by years and years of picking pockets.

“One moment, she’s terribly shy and doesn’t want to see anyone, and the next moment, she can be domineering and overbearing,” he says.

Gaby lifts an eyebrow. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asks, taking a bite of an apple slice.

“That it doesn’t sound like Anastasia at all?” Napoleon offers. “I mean, we have to allow for a certain amount of growth and change. Puberty will do that to you. Although puberty was probably a cakewalk compared to the October Revolution. That would have messed up anyone, especially if they're an aristocrat to boot.”

“You’re telling me?” Gaby asks drily.

Napoleon blinks in surprise. “Sorry, I totally forgot,” he admits. “Uh, you and Illya both seem remarkably stable, considering the circumstances?”

“Says the kleptomaniac,” Gaby says, rolling her eyes.

“Fair point,” Napoleon concedes. “I’ve been getting a lot better at handling it, though.”

“Hey, I’m not going to complain,” Gaby counters. “If you’d kept that impulse in check, they wouldn’t have shipped you off to Moscow.”

A slow, saccharine smile spreads over Napoleon’s features. He probably practiced it in front of a mirror since it perfectly highlights all the handsome contours of his face. If Illya looks like the image of a man on a Soviet propaganda poster come to life, then Napoleon looks like a movie star who stepped right off the silver screen.

“I don’t regret having been shipped off to Moscow,” he teases. “It’s where I found the greatest treasure of them all.”

“A woman you can pass off as Maria Romanova?” Gaby asks, playing coy.

Napoleon’s face falls. “I was going to say love, but I should have known you won’t fall for it.”

“I don’t think anyone is going to fall for it. You have to try a little harder.”

“Duly noted. I’ll do my best,” Napoleon says and winks at her, which gives his face a boyish and pleasantly mischievous look. He certainly practiced this expression in front of a mirror. It’s too calculated and perfectly executed to be anything but a weapon which he’d decided to add to his arsenal. “Oh, by the way, when I spoke to Waverly, I said you were my girlfriend. Just so you know.”

“Did you?” Gaby asks. “And what else did you tell him about me? That I’m the heiress to the Romanov fortune? That he should support my claim, otherwise my husband is going to ruin much more than just his reputation?”

“No,” Napoleon says slowly. “You need to wait with the threats and intimidation until people like you enough to trust you. You need to wait until they’ve started to depend on you. Actually, I apologized for stealing one of his pocket watches back when we first met. I returned it to him.”

“How did he take it?” Gaby asks. “He probably didn’t expect to see the pocket watch again.”

“He seemed astonished, but I think he took it well,” Napoleon replies. “Apparently, the watch had belonged to the Czarevich. Given what we know, it’s not surprising that Waverly had the little boy’s watch, I suppose. I should have told you before, but Illya already hates Waverly so much, I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire.”

Gaby furrows her brow. “Why did you give him the watch back? I mean, you know what he must have done to get it in the first place!”

“I don’t know. He seemed lonely and depressed?” Napoleon says, contemplating his coffee cup as though it holds the answer to life and the universe. “However, I think I dropped enough hints to make it clear that we know about the fate of the Czarevich.”

Gaby’s eyes widen, and she forgets to drink from her cup, which she’d already had lifted halfway to her mouth. “What did he say?” She puts the cup back on the saucer too quickly. Tea spills over her hands and stains the tablecloth.

“At first, he didn’t believe me when I told him I know the truth,” Napoleon replies. “He stalled and beat around the bush if you know what I mean. Instead, he made some vague allusions and asked me how I managed to find the Czarevich et cetera. I tried to let it slip that I know what he and his accomplice did, but it seems that he doesn’t want to admit it.”

“Of course not,” Gaby snaps. “He would never admit it, he’s too smart. I’ve told you time and time again. If he did, he’d lose his standing with the still-living Romanovs.” She frowns. “But he can still be useful to us.”

“How so?”

“Illya’s supposed to be an aristocrat, isn’t he? And Waverly has incredible connections. We might use his contacts to find Illya’s family. If anyone asks why I was ever pretending to be Grand Duchess Maria, we can say it was a scam we made up to draw the Russian nobility’s attention in the first place.”

“You know, that just might work,” Napoleon says slowly. “But it’ll leave us penniless. I still need lots of money to pay off my debts to the US government. Otherwise, my boss will gladly send me right back to Moscow.”

“What was the actual goal of your mission?” Gaby asks.

“In all honesty? My boss hates my guts and thought the Soviets would finish me off,” Napoleon replies drily.

“I’m sure he didn’t word it that way when he sent you to Moscow in the first place,” Gaby counters.

“No, my official mission was to gather information about the inner workings of the OGPU.”

“You’ve fulfilled that mission, haven’t you?” Gaby asks, taking a sip of tea. “I’m sure you’d be let off the hook if Illya passes on all the information he has about the OGPU.”

“That’s actually kind of brilliant,” Napoleon says. “Where have you been all my life?”

They finish their breakfast and walk back up to their room.

“Have you done that often?” Gaby asks. “Taking care of Illya when he has a migraine?”

Napoleon makes a noncommittal sound. “From time to time,” he says. “Do you have any idea how difficult it used to be to get Peril to admit he’s sick and needs rest?”

“Really?”

“He used to be so stubborn. You remember when he refused to say his muscles were sore from all the lifting he did after the train accident? That was mild compared to what he was like in the beginning. He’s come a long way, believe me.”

Gaby hums and opens the door of their suite for Napoleon to pass through. “I understand it, though,” she mumbles. “I also don’t like admitting it when I need help. It makes me feel so weak.”

“That’s not weakness,” Napoleon counters and motions for Gaby to open the bedroom door. “If you have people in your life who’ll support you if you need it? That’s a strength.”

“That makes sense, but… look, I’m sure if you were on your own, you’d get by just fine.”

“Possibly,” Napoleon says with a shrug. “But that doesn’t mean I want to get by on my own.”

For once, his gaze is unguarded and vulnerable. There’s nothing affected or practiced about his appearance. It sends a pleasant shiver down Gaby’s spine.

Napoleon quickly checks up on Illya, who mumbles that he’d prefer being left alone until his headache passes.

Gaby goes to the ensuite bathroom to freshen up and do her make-up in to hide the remainders of the bruise around her eye. She thinks back to her relatives’ reaction to the bruise and snorts indignantly. If they’d bothered to talk to Illya before drawing their conclusions, they’d have found out he believes using violence on one’s partner is an incredibly bourgeois thing to do. He’d never stoop to such low levels.

Gaby puts on some light rouge to accentuate her cheeks and a little bit of lipstick to give her lips a nice rose-colored tint.

Brushing her long hair, she scowls at her reflection in the mirror. Wearing it short is obviously the fashion in Germany. All the advertisements tell her so. Should she visit a hairdresser and have them cut it in a more fashionable, modern style?

She experiments with her hair a little, pinning it up this way or that, trying to create the illusion of a short haircut. It would look good on her, but there’s just one problem. It diminishes her resemblance to Maria Romanova. That won’t do.

Long hair it is, then.

Once she’s satisfied with the result and confident that she is not going to look like a scarecrow next to Napoleon, she steps out of the bathroom. While he was waiting for her, Napoleon has busied himself by looking through their collection of notes about the private life of the Imperial Family.

“What are you looking for?” she asks and sits down next to Napoleon.

“I wanted to know whether you’ve made any headway regarding Illya’s parentage,” he replies. “We should at least have some idea—"

Gaby takes the pages from his hands and quickly searches for a handwritten page containing a list of names. “Those are the names of all the boys who were born in the right timeframe to aristocratic parents with connections to the Imperial Family,” she says. “But they’re all accounted for. They fled Russia with their families. None of the boys went missing during the October Revolution. I’m starting to think Illya might have grown up a whole lot closer to the Imperial Family than we thought.”

Napoleon gives her an imploring look. “You mean—"

“I’m not sure,” Gaby interrupts him. “I’ve been thinking about it since the train accident when Illya lifted the carriage roof. We know Illya’s very tall and very strong and so was Czar Alexander III and most of his sons. Napoleon, what if it runs in the _family_?”

Napoleon rubs the bridge of his nose and furrows his brows. “Are you suggesting Illya is a Romanov?”

“Well, not a legitimate one,” Gaby says quickly. “It’s not unusual for royals to have affairs resulting in illegitimate children. It would explain so much, wouldn’t it? The Bolsheviks would have certainly gone after the son of a baron and a baroness. The son of a baron and, say, a kitchen maid? Not so much. For now, it’s just a theory and I don’t have any proof.”

“But it would make a lot of sense,” Napoleon mutters. “I suppose we could discreetly ask Waverly if he knows anything about the Czar and his brothers sowing their wild oats… I’m sure he’ll be willing to help if we promise to restrain Illya from beating him up.”

“Restraining Illya? That might be a bit difficult,” Gaby says under her breath. She takes a pencil and adds “Possibly the illegitimate son of a Romanov???” to the list.

“Are you kidding me?” Napoleon laughs. “One word from you and he’d eat out of the palm of your hand. He didn’t hurt your uncle back in Königsberg. From what I gathered your uncle must have made him extremely angry so that just goes to show how much better he’s gotten at self-restraint.”

“Perhaps,” Gaby trails off, uncertain. She stands up, packs up her notes, and puts them away. “Anyway, it’s no use now.” She holds out her hand. “Mr. Solo? I’m ready for you to give me a tour of Berlin.”

“That’s the spirit,” he says with a wide grin.

They have a great time until the afternoon. Shortly before they are due to meet with the Vinciguerras, they stop short when they hear a commotion. Sounds of men yelling in aggressive German mingle with the shouts of bystanders egging the fighters on.

Gaby’s torn between wanting to get closer and walking away. On the one hand, she wants to know what’s causing people to bellow out obscenities and to lay into each other with their fists. On the other hand, she’s not looking for trouble. The sensible thing to do would be to turn around and walk away, pretending she’s neither heard nor seen anything.

Napoleon furrows his brow and starts off in the direction of the scuffle before Gaby can hold him back.

When they get to the site of the commotion, two groups are locked in a street fight.

Roughly two-thirds of the fighting men are wearing distinctive brassards - a red base, encompassing a white circle, bearing a black, cross-like shape.

Her uncle had been wearing a pin with that symbol on his lapel.

Gaby instinctively backs away.

She tugs on Napoleon’s sleeve. “Let’s go,” she says. “I don’t want to be here.”

“Of course,” Napoleon says, putting one of his arms around her shoulders to gently steer her away from the conflict. Once they’re no longer in danger of being caught in the fight, he stops two passersby on the street.

“Excuse me, but what’s the meaning of this?” he says, pointing his thumb in the direction of the fight.

“The nazis are fighting the commies again,” the man tells him, while the woman accompanying purses her lips. “It’s been happening more and more often. If I were you, I’d stay the hell away. You don’t want to be connected to either group once the police show up and start arresting people. Trust me.”

Napoleon thanks him for the advice and they move on. “I’m almost grateful Peril has a migraine today. He’d have insisted on getting involved in the fight.

“’Soviet spy arrested in Berlin for fighting fascists during his honeymoon’,” Gaby mutters. “Would have been one hell of a headline.”

“And aren’t we all glad it won’t be a headline,” Napoleon replies. He reaches into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He frowns and pats the pocket in confusion until he remembers he’s no longer carrying a pocket watch.

“Already missing the watch you gave to Waverly?” Gaby asks.

“Maybe,” he says with a shrug. “Perhaps I’ll steal it back when we meet with him. You know, for old time’s sake.”

They set off in the direction of the Vinciguerras’ residence. “You know, I’ve been asking myself,” Gaby begins. “If the watch belonged to the Czarevich, it must be incredibly valuable. How come Waverly didn’t notice it when you took it? And why did he carry it around? If I’d murdered a boy and taken a watch that was a gift from his father, I’d feel much too guilty to look at the watch several times a day.”

“He didn’t carry it around with him,” Napoleon replies. “He kept it in a safe in his hotel room.”

“Are you telling me you broke into his hotel room?”

“I didn’t have to break in. He invited me,” Napoleon corrects her.

“Why did he invite you into his room? I thought you said you’d met him at a bar?”

Napoleon clears his throat. “Now, this might come as a shock to you, but people have told me I’m reasonably attractive,” he says. “Waverly seemed to share that opinion.”

“What?!” Gaby hisses. “You mean you had a… you spent the night with him?”

“Well, not the entire night,” Napoleon says. “But a few hours? Yes.”

“Enough time to find an expensive watch and make off with it?”

“Among other things.”

“At least now I know why you were so vague whenever I asked you about Waverly,” Gaby mutters. “Illya—”

“Would have had an aneurysm?” Napoleon throws in. “Most certainly.”

“And when are you planning on telling him?”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it?”

“Great plan,” Gaby says, rolling her eyes.

“I’ll think of something,” Napoleon says. “Right now, we need to get moving if we don’t want to be late for the Vinciguerras.”

Gaby clicks her tongue. “Please,” she says, putting on an exaggerated upper-class accent. “I’m royalty. They should be happy I’m willing to see them.”

“Keep that up and we’ll have them convinced of your ancestry in a matter of minutes,” Napoleon says drily.

“I’m scared this is all going to be a waste of time,” she sighs. “Sharing the reward money, sharing the story… We’ll have false Olgas, Tatyanas, and Alexeys coming out of the woodwork in a matter of months. Then we can pretend we’re all a happy family. That would be—"

“Incredibly entertaining?” Napoleon offers.

“For you and Illya? Yes. You just have to watch from the sidelines,” she says. “It wouldn’t be entertaining for me.”

“Not until the media realizes a Grand Duchess ran off with the OGPU’s best agent. Then I bet it’s going to be extremely entertaining.”

“I also ran off with an American government agent infamous for his sticky fingers. Don’t forget that.”

“Oh, come on,” Napoleon teases. “Royals are allowed to be a little wild. If they accuse you of getting tired of just being with one man, you can say Catherine the Great’s genes are coming through.”

Gaby bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud in the middle of the street. “Right, but that only explains me. And how do you explain your preferences? Or Illya’s preferences?”

Napoleon shrugs. “I happen to like beautiful people, regardless of their gender. Jealousy is pretty unhealthy as far as emotions are concerned and I’m happy to debate anyone who insists otherwise. As for Peril, well, he’s a good communist. Monogamy and heterosexuality are just a construct of the bourgeoisie. We can free ourselves from thinking it’s the only acceptable way of living if we only look deep into our hearts. We need to reject those bourgeois notions if we hope to bring a new communist society into existence.”

“I don’t know if I should be impressed or frightened. This sounds like something they could publish as propaganda in a magazine.”

They spend the rest of the way to their destination teasing each other in this manner.

As it turns out, the Vinciguerras are residing in a beautifully maintained Palais in one of the wealthier parts of Berlin.

“They have style,” Napoleon remarks. “You can’t deny that.”

He handles the introductions and talks to the personnel, requesting a meeting with Signor and Signora Vinciguerra. “We were also hoping to meet with Grand Duchess Anastasia,” Napoleon says. “Signor Vinciguerra promised me she’d be available.”

The sour-faced butler Napoleon’s talking to presses his lips together and nods. “I will pass on the message. If you would be so kind as to follow me to the sitting room? There you may wait for the lady and gentlemen of the house to get ready.”

They’re shown into a richly decorated room. Gaby’s first reflex is to judge the room a little too pompous for comfort. However, she quickly needs to become used to such splendor. After all, she supposedly grew up surrounded by glamor and luxury. The ostentatious palaces the Romanovs built are a testament to the wealth and power of the dynasty to which she belongs.

Gaby gives the furnishings another look, pretending to be unfazed. She’s supposed to be used to such displays of wealth. The Vinciguerras need to do much, much better if they hope to impress her.

A quick glance at Napoleon verifies he’s taken a leaf from Gaby’s book. He’s mimicking her expression of polite disinterest while they’re waiting for the Vinciguerras.

They must have been waiting for ten minutes when the sound of approaching footsteps signals the arrival of Alexander and Victoria Vinciguerra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, I won't be able to provide you with weekly updates as I used to do. I've just started a new job and I'm in the process of writing my thesis, both of which take up a lot of my time and energy. I'll do everything I can to bring this fic to a satisfying conclusion because I love these characters way too much to abandon the fic, but as I said, I won't be able to update this fic on a weekly basis anymore. I hope you understand! <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I hope you're all doing well, given the circumstances right now re: Covid-19. My heart goes out to everyone, especially those who are in a region particularly affected by the virus right now. Stay strong, stay safe, and stay healthy! <333

Alexander Vinciguerra can’t contain his bafflement as he lays eyes on Gaby and Napoleon.

“You!” he gasps with wide eyes before a stern look from his wife acts as a reminder to compose himself.

Alexander’s quite amusing like that, if Gaby’s honest with herself.

Victoria on the other hand…

She is wearing a white blouse and a pair of navy-blue trousers, which do everything to accentuate her long legs. She’s almost as tall as Illya. Her blond hair is cut short, according to the latest fashion. The short curls frame her face like a halo. She chose to dramatically accentuate her cheekbones; her thin eyebrows are drawn-on and her eyes are lined with copious amounts of kohl. It would have been a lot of makeup for a night of partying, much less for an afternoon meeting.

However, she manages to pull off that look without appearing comical. On the contrary, the dark eye makeup contrasts with the light color of her irises and creates a flashing, intense look. Had Victoria Vinciguerra pretended to be royalty, Gaby would have believed her claim in a matter of seconds, just for the confidence she exuded.

But the Vinciguerras had not arrived alone.

Compared to the intimidating glamor of Victoria Vinciguerra, Anya Tchaikovskaya’s appearance is a little disappointing.

Anya has mousy brown hair and sallow skin, as though she’s not getting enough sunlight. She looks scared and tries to hide behind Victoria Vinciguerra.

Gaby decides Anya can’t possibly be a legitimate Grand Duchess. The first bout of curiosity has passed, and she focuses her attention on Victoria and Alexander.

“We meet again,” Alexander Vinciguerra says. His cheeks are suspiciously flushed as he meets Gaby’s eye. “What a pleasant surprise. However, I remember your husband looked somewhat differently.”

Gaby raises her eyebrows. “Indeed?” she teases him.

“So, you’re not—"

“Sandro, I don’t think they’ve come here to discuss such matters,” Victoria interrupts him, speaking with a deep, calm, and collected voice. “This is a business meeting, and business comes before pleasure, as you should know.”

“Nevertheless, it’s always advantageous and beneficial when we find ways to combine the two,” Napoleon picks up the thread of the conversation.

Victoria’s scarlet lips curl into a thin smile. “A man after my own heart,” she replies and sends an appraising look into his direction. “It might have only been a set phrase before, but now I can say I am certainly pleased to make your acquaintance.” Her eyes wander from Napoleon to Gaby. “You had good taste when you chose your husband. Or was it luck?”

Gaby mirrors Victoria’s insincere smile. It reminds her of talking with party officials back in Moscow, who looking for a trophy on their arm or in their bed. Hell, she even made it through an afternoon tea with the head of the OGPU. Her father-in-law could have had her shipped off to Siberia at the stroke of a pen. Victoria Vinciguerra will have to step up her game if she hopes to frighten Gaby. “He’s not my husband,” Gaby says cheerfully. “But he is my partner.”

“Your partner in crime, I suppose,” Victoria says, her interest in Napoleon now barely concealed. “Sandro, you may go, I’ll handle this. Anya, please stay here.”

Anya obeys. Not that she has much of a choice. Victoria’s tone of voice when she phrased her request made it very clear she was giving an order.

Anya takes a seat in an armchair between Victoria and Gaby.

Gaby tries to make eye contact with Anya, tries to flash her a smile and tell her without words that they’re on the same side. But she can’t catch Anya’s attention. Her eyes are constantly scanning the room. Not in the methodical, systematic way Gaby would expect from someone like Illya, but in a panicked, arbitrary way that reminds her of a frightened animal.

The newspapers had not been lying when they’d called her traumatized.

“Well, I suppose you have a business proposal for me?” Victoria says. “I’m waiting.”

Napoleon flashes her a smile. “You’re currently hosting Grand Duchess Anastasia,” he says, gesturing to Anya. “However, I’d go so far as to call me and my partners experts when it comes to the topic of the Imperial Family. Thus, we have noticed the story you came up with… the story explaining how Her Imperial Highness has managed to flee Russia and stay hidden for so long… well, it seems a bit thin. No proof, you see.”

Anya flinches. Gaby has to keep herself from reaching over and comforting her, even though Gaby doubts the affection would be welcomed.

“What are you implying?” Victoria snaps, her voice sounding sharp enough to cut glass.

“Mrs. Vinciguerra, I think you know exactly what we’re implying,” Gaby replies calmly. “You’re trying to scam the Romanovs. You want to make them believe Anastasia wasn’t assassinated. That’s convenient, actually.”

Victoria sneers. “Why would it be convenient?”

“Because we’re trying to do the same thing,” Napoleon says. “We can support each other’s claims.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen photographs of the Imperial Family,” Gaby continues. “You’ll know I share an uncanny resemblance to Grand Duchess Maria. Additionally, I have absolutely no problem upholding that claim convincingly.” She might be exaggerating a bit, but what has Napoleon always instilled in her when it came to manipulating people? Do it confidently, with a straight face and insinuate they’d be stupid if they didn’t believe you. Assert your superiority and people are going to take everything that comes out of your mouth as gospel.

“When we read the articles about Anastasia in the newspapers, we became very interested in offering you the possibility of cooperating with us,” Napoleon says.

Victoria crosses her arms in front of her chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re not trying to scam anyone. All we want to do is to help Anastasia reclaim her rightful place in the world.” She reaches over and pats Anya on the knee as an overbearing mother would do with a child.

“You’re not interested in the finder’s reward?” Napoleon asks. “For returning Grand Duchess Anastasia to her family?”

Victoria rolls her eyes theatrically. “If you think my husband and I need money, then you can’t have done your research very well. Take a good look around. Do you think I’m poor?” she drawls, gesturing to the luxury surrounding them. “I don’t need to resort to cheating to get rich. I am rich.”

“Cheating is such an awful word, Mrs. Vinciguerra. I’d rather you didn’t use it,” Napoleon replies, completely unfazed.

“But there are other rewards if you reunite a Grand Duchess with her family,” Gaby says. “Prestige and status, for example. Let’s say you return Anastasia to her family, not because you want the finder’s reward, but out of the goodness of your own heart. The Romanovs would forever feel indebted to you. Sure, they’re no longer the rulers of Russia, but they’re linked to nearly every important European dynasty. They have excellent connections.”

Victoria clenches her jaw and narrows her eyes. “What do you propose?” she sniffs.

“We frame it as a wonderful coincidence,” Napoleon says. “Two sisters reunited after a tragic twist of fate. Maria, who can finally find the safety and freedom she’s been craving, now that she’s left the Soviet Union. And Anastasia, who can begin to heal now that she’s reunited with her older sister who’ll take care of her.”

Gaby glances at Napoleon. Taking care of the disturbed, scared and frail woman sitting beside her? She’s not the least bit qualified for that, but she figures that they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it.

Anya seems frightened once she hears Napoleon’s proposal, but she doesn’t say anything. Her eyes are still frantically scanning the room. With a start, Gaby realizes Anya has contributed nothing to the conversation so far.

“How would that work?” Victoria asks sharply.

“We have compiled a detailed backstory when we came up with the plan to present Grand Duchess Maria to the Imperial Family,” Napoleon says, patting the document bag he’s been carrying with him. “It’s meticulously researched, based on knowledge available to the public, and classified information taken from the OGPU archives.”

Victoria makes a derisive sound as she tries to reach for the bag.

Napoleon clicks his tongue. “I wasn’t done, Signora Vinciguerra.”

“Well, if you’re not going to give me any more details, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline the offer,” she sighs dramatically. “It’s not like I can make an informed decision if you refuse to share your information. And what if I’m not inclined to share the spotlight with some people who just march into my home and declare they are looking to cooperate with me on a lucrative scam?”

“Ah, so you admit what we’re planning is a scam and not a family reunion?” Gaby says, seizing the opportunity to rile Victoria. “When I spoke to your husband yesterday, he was adamant you are hosting the real Grand Duchess Anastasia.”

Victoria smiles and lights a cigarette. “What we do and say in public is very different from what we do and say behind closed doors,” she says, exhaling smoke. “I thought you two of all people would understand the value of discretion. You’re both wearing wedding rings, but you admit you’re not married to each other?” She gives them a long, meaningful look. “Naughty.”

“Discretion is a very important value, indeed,” Napoleon says. “Whose idea was it? Passing off a girl you took in from a sanatorium as Anastasia?”

Victoria smiles but refuses to answer.

Napoleon looks at Anya. “Whose idea was it?”

Anya gasps and shakes her head. “But I am Grand Duchess Anastasia of Russia,” she says in German. Her accent sounds similar to Illya’s.

Gaby gives her a compassionate smile. “You and I both know you’re not who you’re pretending to be,” she says in Russian.

Anya blinks but doesn’t respond.

“You have no idea what I’m saying, have you?” Gaby continues, still in Russian. “I’ll give you another chance. If you understand what I’m saying, but you don’t want to speak Russian for some reason, say “I understand” in German.”

Anya stares at Gaby with barely disguised panic. “I don’t want to… please stop,” she stammers in German.

“What did you say to her?” Victoria hisses at Gaby. “Don’t upset her! Can’t you see she’s fragile?”

“I simply asked her whether she understood Russian,” Gaby explains. “Obviously, she doesn’t. We that the rumors that Anya doesn’t understand Russian were exaggerated but… you could have done a lot better when picking out your false Grand Duchess.”

“What does it matter? It’s the language of the people who tortured her and nearly killed her,” Victoria argues. “Why would she want to speak Russian?”

“It’s a bit more complicated, isn’t it?” Gaby counters. “Russian is also the language of her family, the language of her loved ones. And while we’ve been making plans, we’ve also excluded Anya the whole time. Shouldn’t we consider her opinion before we make any decisions?”

“Please,” Victoria huffs indignantly. “Anya is perfectly happy to go along with anything we settle on.”

“Oh, really?” Napoleon asks. “Mrs. Tchaikovskaya, would you be so kind as to let us know what you think about this whole plan? Would you be willing to work with the Vinciguerras and us, pretending Gabriella is your sister Grand Duchess Maria?”

Anya manages to hold Napoleon’s gaze for a second, before she looks away, blushing slightly. “I-I… I think I’d like to speak to Gabriella alone before I decide,” she says very quietly.

“Anya, there is absolutely no need for you to talk with this woman,” Victoria says quickly before anyone else can get a word in. “It’s just going to confuse you. Sandro and I will handle it. You’ll be just fine.”

Anya shakes her head. “But I do want to talk to her,” she says. After voicing her wish, she flinches, as though she can’t quite believe she just contradicted Victoria Vinciguerra.

Sensing an opportunity, Gaby reaches over and places her hand on Anya’s forearm. “It’s alright. If we’re going to pretend to be sisters, we need to get to know each other.” She fixes Victoria Vinciguerra with an intimidatory glare she picked up from Illya.

“That sounds very reasonable,” Napoleon concurs. “Mrs. Vinciguerra, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind giving me a tour of the house in the meantime.”

Victoria, realizing she’s been played, gives the tiniest of nods. “It’d be my pleasure, Napoleon.”

Gaby waits until the two of them have exited the room before she lets go of Anya’s arm. “What did you want to talk about?” she asks, trying to make her voice as gentle as she can.

Anya takes a deep breath while she avoids looking at Gaby. “I’m not Anastasia,” she mumbles. “I’m not even Russian.”

“That doesn’t come as a surprise,” Gaby replies. “All the Romanov children died in the revolution.”

“Oh,” Anya says and looks down at her hands. Her nails are bitten down to the nailbed and her cuticles are crusty with blood. “I thought—"

“You thought I really was a Romanov?” Gaby asks with a smile. “I’m flattered, I guess?”

“You look like you could be royalty. I don’t,” Anya says, worrying her large, uneven front teeth over her bottom lip. “And you look like Maria, too. I’ve seen photos of her. You’re really pretty,” she whispers, her pale cheeks taking on a pink tinge.

“It’s mostly the hair, you know?” Gaby replies. “If I cut it, or wore it tied back as you do, I wouldn’t resemble Maria that much.” She gathers her hair back into a braid with one hand, gesticulating to her face with the other hand. “See? But if you’re not Grand Duchess Anastasia, who are you?”

“My actual name is Franziska,” the woman says, “But now I prefer Anya. It sounds… it has a nicer ring to it. I’m half German, half Polish, so I understand a bit of Russian because the languages are similar, but it’s still… I couldn’t fake it well enough so Mr. and Mrs. Vinciguerra said that I should say that I’d forgotten the language because I was so scared of hearing it.”

“And why are you staying with the Vinciguerras?”

Anya shrugs helplessly. “I had a job in an ammunitions factory. There was an explosion and I was injured. I hurt my head and couldn’t remember who I was for a few weeks. There was such a commotion, I hadn’t been living in Berlin for long and I had no acquaintances. When I was released from the hospital, I was so desperate I tried to drown myself. A policeman saved me, and I was brought into an asylum. I… I don’t remember much of my stay at the asylum. People said I talked in my sleep, though, and that it sounded like I was speaking Russian. I think I must have been speaking Polish and they just thought it was Russian. Anyway, a woman was reading a book about the Romanovs and she said I looked so much like Anastasia. It stuck. I still couldn’t remember my name, so I started calling myself Anastasia. It was better than Jane Doe.”

Anya bites her bottom lip before continuing: “I don’t know how it happened, but someone must have spread a rumor. Suddenly, some people wanted to see me and ask me questions about my family life and I… since I’d lost my memory, I believed them at first. I thought I could really be Anastasia. Mr. and Mrs. Vinciguerra took me in a few weeks after that. They’ve taken care of me so far, and I think they wouldn’t like it if I… if I declared I’m not Anastasia. They’ve put so much work into this. They even contacted the Czar’s first girlfriend. She’s a ballerina in Paris now, and she told the press she’s convinced I’m Anastasia. I have no idea how she could have said it with such conviction. I’ve never met her.”

“They probably offered her money,” Gaby says. “It’s kind of funny, though. You know, I used to be a ballerina before I got married.”

Anya deflates a little. “He’s a very handsome man,” she says. “You’re lucky. He’s American, isn’t he?”

Gaby laughs. “Oh, no. I’m not married to Napoleon. My husband is Russian.” She reaches into her purse and hands Anya a photo. It was their wedding portrait, Oleg insisted they had their picture taken.

“You don’t look very happy with each other,” Anya remarks. “Neither of you is smiling… Is that why you left him for your companion?”

“No, Illya is here in Berlin, too. I love Illya, even though it doesn’t look like it on the photograph. We didn’t really have a choice. Illya’s father insisted we get married,” Gaby says, thinking of Oleg Kuryakin back in Moscow. She twists the wedding ring on her finger. “Was that true, by the way? The story about the lost son in Bucharest?”

“No, it’s something Mr. and Mrs. Vinciguerra made up,” Anya confesses. “I’ve never even been to Bucharest.”

“That’s what I thought,” Gaby says. “The Queen of Romania is related to the Romanovs. If you’d been in Romania and if you’d really been Anastasia, then you could have asked for her support.”

“Oh.” Anya blinks. “I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. Vinciguerra know that.”

“There are several things they don’t know,” Gaby says nonchalantly, watching with delight how Anya’s eyes widen as though she just insulted Stalin to his face. “Do you want to know a secret? Napoleon knows Alexander Waverly. He tutored the Czar’s—"

“Mr. Waverly?” Anya interrupts. “I don’t like him.”

“Why? What did he do to you?” Gaby asks.

“He spoke to the newspaper reporters and said very rude things about me,” Anya says with a grimace. “’That Fräulein is nothing but a vile fraudster who wants to profit off a family tragedy!’ for example.”

“Great,” Gaby snorts, while privately marveling at Waverly’s hypocrisy. As though Waverly hasn’t been profiting off a family tragedy for the past fifteen years. “Now I know what I can look forward to.”

“I don’t think he’d be as nasty to you as he was to me,” Anya says quietly. “I think it was Mr. and Mrs. Vinciguerra he didn’t like.”

“But it’s much easier to insult a defenseless woman,” Gaby says, “Than it is to insult a couple born of nobility who wield considerable economic power. I’m quite sure he picked that up at the Russian court.”

“How is it? Russia, I mean.”

Gaby ends up speaking in a very disorganized way about everything she can think of. She tells Anya about her earliest memories of Leningrad back when it had still been Saint Petersburg. She tells her about the revolution, her life after she moved to Moscow, and the hard work at the ballet.

“Do you sometimes wish you were actually royalty?” Anya asks suddenly. “I think it would be nice to be a princess… to have people treat you like a princess.”

Gaby remembers reading about arranged marriages, nonsensical house rules, and elitism. “My father worked for the Czar and my mother was from a noble family,” she says with a weak smile. “I was extremely lucky, otherwise I would have been sent to a labor camp. So, to answer your question, no I wouldn’t want to be a Romanov. The ones who didn’t flee the country were all killed during the revolution.”

“But Mr. Waverly says—"

“Well, then he’s a – what was the charming expression he used – a vile fraudster,” Gaby says with a bitterness rivaling Illya. “The Imperial Family didn’t survive the revolution and Mr. Waverly knows that better than anyone. Believe me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I was inspired by Anna Anderson's (alleged) life story when writing about Anya! I've already linked all the sources I've used to research Anna Anderson in previous chapter notes, so if you want to know more, please check them out!
> 
> And here's some [background information](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marie_of_Romania) on the Queen of Romania, who I mentioned in the chapter!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I hope all of you are still doing okay with the Corona situation <3 Stay strong, stay safe, and stay healthy! <333

Illya’s head is killing him - it feels as though someone is driving a white-hot iron rod through his temple. He massages the scar curling around his eye, from where the pain emanates, hoping to get some relief. The pain hardly diminishes, but at least he falls into a fitful sleep.

When he wakes up a few hours later, the headache is still there, but his head no longer feels as though someone tried to split his skull with an ax.

He dimly remembers Napoleon and Gaby leaving to meet with the Vinciguerras.

Illya reaches for the telephone on the nightstand. For once, he’s grateful Napoleon insisted they stay in a hotel “befitting Gaby’s rank as a Grand Duchess”. Illya would never admit it if Napoleon asked outright but he’s starting to enjoy the luxury of having room service.

He orders a light breakfast, painkillers, and a newspaper.

Twenty minutes later, Illya washes down his Aspirin with a sip of tea before he unfolds the newspaper and starts reading.

The moment Illya gets to the “International News” section, his heart skips a beat.

The article is short; it doesn’t even cover half the page.

For a German newspaper, that makes perfect sense. Germany is caught up in her own problems. Yet another unstable government has come into power, half-heartedly promising to find a way of the devastating economic crisis bleeding the country dry.

In Germany, the conviction of Oleg Kuryakin does not constitute front-page news.

Illya frowns and reads the article. Oleg had been arrested. “Charges include treason and sabotaging the revolution”, the article says. “Kuryakin plead guilty to all charges.” The judge had needed all but ten minutes to sentence Oleg to death by firing squad and the Communist Party had appointed Sergey Petrenko as Oleg’s successor.

The article includes a grainy photograph of Oleg. He looks just like Illya remembers him – right down to the pince-nez and the keen dark eyes, betraying an extraordinary intellect. But the image of the man Illya has always equal parts feared and admired has changed. Now, Illya can distinguish the all-too-obvious traces of exhaustion and sadness on his adoptive father’s face.

Illya clenches his fists. Oleg is the second father figure he’s lost to the Bolsheviks. Well, the third father figure if he counts the aristocratic father he can’t remember.

He touches the photograph of Oleg. Losing Oleg, it’s different from losing his father, Nikolay Zhukov. It had come as a shock when he’d been taken to the Gulag. Illya had seen the look on his mother’s face and he’d known nothing was ever going to be the same. Oleg, on the other hand, had seen his demise coming. He knew what would happen to him and accepted it long ago.

Illya sighs, opens his suitcase and pulls out a piece of paper from a secret compartment.

It’s a handwritten note.

Alexander Vinciguerra had just made blatant advances towards Gaby and Illya had chosen to walk away to cool off, when he’d discovered the note in the inside pocket of his jacket.

Oleg must have found a way to hide it before Illya left Russia with Napoleon and Gaby.

In blue ink and Oleg Kuryakin’s impeccable cursive, it reads:

_Illya Nikolayevich,_

_There is more to you than meets the eye._

_I think I’ve known for a long time._

_I hope you can forgive me for the things I made you do._

_Love,_

_Oleg_

At first, Illya thought the note referred to the true nature of his relationship with Napoleon. But the theory doesn’t make sense. Oleg had dropped more than enough hints; he didn’t need to write a note.

Now, Illya’s convinced Oleg had been alluding to Illya’s parentage. Oleg must have been aware of Illya’s aristocratic background. Nevertheless, Oleg had chosen to take Illya under his wing and turn him into the OGPU’s best agent. A true revolutionary success story…

Perhaps he’s reading too much into things. Maybe Oleg simply wanted to say goodbye and didn’t know how.

Illya traces the letters written by Oleg’s hand. He decides he’s forgiven Oleg when his eyes are drawn to the article again.

Petrenko has been appointed as Oleg’s successor.

In turn, that means the telegram Gaby and Illya had sent to Oleg a few days ago can’t have reached him in time. It must have found its way to Petrenko’s desk instead.

Illya swallows, clenching his fists in an attempt to stave off an impending panic attack.

He takes a deep breath.

Petrenko knows they’re in Berlin.

He takes another deep breath.

Petrenko bears him a grudge and now has the resources to persecute him.

He takes another deep breath.

They need to get out of Berlin.

Illya fights through the remainder of the migraine and tries to think methodically while squashing the first tendrils of panic which try to wrap around his heart. Panic makes methodical thinking impossible. Thus, he can't allow himself to panic.

He can do this.

Petrenko is clever, but Illya knows he can outsmart the little bastard if he tries hard enough.

He suppresses the urge to curse. He should have known sending a telegram to Oleg was incredibly foolish.

Oleg would have understood… actually, Oleg had understood it better than Illya. The wedding ceremony had been Oleg’s goodbye. If Illya hadn’t been so thick, he would have realized it sooner.

His eyes start burning and Illya roughly wipes the tears away before they can stain his cheeks.

Just like panicking, getting emotional won’t solve anything. It’s too late to save Oleg, but Illya can take steps to ensure Gaby and Napoleon’s safety.

They can't stay in Berlin.

Germany can – at best – be described as unstable and Illya wouldn’t expect any help from the German state. They need to get to a country that’s better equipped to help them

He considers his options. They can't use the passports they've currently got – they're the first thing Petrenko will look for. In order to leave the country, they need new documents, preferably from a source who won't rat them out the very second OGPU agents come knocking at their door. Even with Napoleon's uncanny ability to forge black-market contacts at lightning-speed, Illya doubts they'd be able to get such documents fast enough, never mind an entry visa to a country he’d consider safe.

"Stupid," he mutters under his breath. "I should have known... stupid, stupid, stupid."

They spent all their valuable time memorizing family trees and obscure facts about the Romanovs when they failed to consider the very real possibility that they'd have to flee from the OGPU.

_Stupid_.

If they just knew someone at an embassy, anyone who'd be able to speed up the process. For a fee, of course, but Illya trusts Napoleon to be able to procure a sizeable amount of money, if not necessarily by legal means.

Illya paces up and down their room when his eyes fall on the copy of Waverly's book, half-hidden under a pile of paper filled with Gaby's cramped cursive writing.

He swallows against the lump in his throat.

Waverly.

He'd fit the bill.

Waverly resides at the Danish embassy in Berlin, so he undoubtedly has the necessary contacts to organize three Danish passports for Gaby, Napoleon, and Illya. Additionally, he has excellent contacts to the Dowager Empress, who’s a Danish princess by birth. There's no denying it, Waverly is influential, sketchy past and drug habit be damned. And Illya has enough incriminating knowledge about Waverly to make him lose that influence and good standing in a heartbeat. That is if the Romanovs wouldn't resort to more drastic measures than withdrawing their financial support and shun Waverly. He killed the heir to the throne, after all.

Illya's mouth involuntarily curls into a sardonic smile. Waverly values nothing more than his own life and he'd do everything to save his skin; the skeleton of Alexey Romanov buried beneath a tree on the outskirts of a village in Western Siberia proves that. Waverly would rather shoot the child he'd been hired to protect than risk his own life, that much was clear. What were a few fake passports compared to putting a bullet in a child's brain?

His headache flares up again.

Right now, he has no way of letting Napoleon and Gaby know about the imminent danger. As a last resort, he could send a telegram to the residence of the Vinciguerra's. However, a telegram got them in trouble in the first place. All it takes is a bit of rotten luck and the telegram could be intercepted by the OGPU.

No, what he needs to do is check whether their suite has been compromised in any way. Once he's done with that, he'll start packing, so once Napoleon and Gaby return, they're not going to waste any time with such trivialities.

Illya gets to work.

He's methodical. His mind and body work together like a well-oiled machine, instinctively remembering to check for every little trick he's ever been taught at the OGPU. It’s like a game of chess, where he also needs to lay traps and think ahead, trying to anticipate Petrenko's moves. His heart beats faster at the thought of beating his opponent.

He'll miss this.

The thought startles Illya more than he'd like to admit.

Ever since his mother married Oleg, Illya had known he’d eventually become an OGPU agent. Any other career path ceased to be an option once Oleg explained it in simple terms, so a stubborn and grieving teenaged Illya could understand it.

Oleg wanted to protect Illya from the Bolshevik leadership and the best way to do that was to make him a part of it.

"You know who I am, don't you?" Oleg had asked.

A young Illya clenched his fists, trying not to appear as intimidated and frightened as he felt. "You're comrade Kuryakin," he said.

"And what do you know about my job?"

"You work for the GPU," Illya said and in a fit of adolescent defiance, he added, "You make people disappear."

Oleg raised an eyebrow. "Well, I suppose that's one way to put it. What I'm getting at, Illya, is this: I’ll soon be the head of the GPU. People in this country are going to fear the name Kuryakin."

"So? Are you telling me I should be afraid? Because I'm not," Illya lied, hating how his voice audibly trembled.

"No, you shouldn't be afraid," Oleg said, ignoring Illya's insolence.

It would take years for Illya to understand how incredibly lucky he'd been at that moment. Every other GPU agent would have certainly taken offense at his immature and bratty behavior and the consequences would have been horrible. But Illya didn't care. He missed his father too much to spend any thoughts on self-preservation, an oversight Oleg would go to great lengths to correct in the coming years. 

"I don't want you to be afraid of me," Oleg said. "And I'm not asking you to like me, either. I _am_ , however, asking you to lend me your trust and respect."

"Both have to be earned," Illya retorted, parroting a phrase his father used regularly when he'd spoken about political leaders.

To Illya's surprise, Oleg's eyes widened and he let out a surprised chuckle. "Your mother was telling the truth when she said that Kolya rubbed off on you," Oleg said with a pained smile. "If I didn't know better, I'd doubt that you're adopted. But you have to realize, those attitudes got your father in trouble. You need to be much more careful. You have to learn to hide your dissatisfaction with the way things are because some things simply can't be changed. To even try to do so... you're setting yourself up for failure. If you're unhappy or discontented, you can't ever let people know, to—"

“What? Follow in your footsteps and make people disappear?" Illya interrupted Oleg.

At the time, he'd only had a vague idea of what the GPU did, except for making people disappear. But if the GPU was the reason someone's father and husband would never come home again, that was reason enough for Illya to despise them.

Oleg furrowed his brow. "Well, now that you mention it, it's probably for the best if you start working for me once you finish school. That way I can always keep an eye on you. But, as I said, you have to learn to hide whatever discontent you may have. You must learn to blend in, not to thrive at the GPU, but to _survive_ , Illya. I need you to become an actor, alright? Your mother needs you to become an actor.”

Illya shakes his head in an attempt to rid himself of the memories. Why had he always seen Oleg just as the man who'd taken his father's place? Why had he never seen Oleg as the man he'd been? The one who'd repaid the life debt he owed to Illya's father by giving his life for Illya? And to think that the last time they'd talked had been at the wedding when Illya had been too nervous for a proper goodbye.

But he'd followed Oleg's advice, hadn't he? He'd become an actor, and a good one, too.

Not well enough to survive a purge, though. No matter how ardently Illya would have denounced any affection or loyalty he might have felt for Oleg, it wouldn't have been enough to save his life.

Simply sharing the same name as someone who's been labeled a traitor and a saboteur is enough to alert the authorities. In this constant charade of mutual denouncing and covering up your own past mistakes, Illya would have eventually gotten caught. 

Really, it was a small miracle he'd managed to hide for as long as he did.

His eyes fall on the large collection of files and notes Gaby has amassed while preparing herself to play a convincing Grand Duchess Maria. She's done research into Illya's past, too, but so far, he's never asked whether she's found out anything. If Gaby tries to engage him in a conversation about the topic, he usually does his best to change the subject. He _appreciates_ her efforts, he really does, but the more he thinks about it, the less he wants to know anything about his biological family.

If he were to go down that particular rabbit hole, he'll only set himself up for more pain and heartache. The way Illya sees it, there are two possibilities. Either his biological parents couldn't get out of Russia in time, which means they must have died following the revolution. Or they indeed managed to flee and save their lives, but they willingly left their son behind. In that case, Illya is certain he doesn't want to meet the parents who left their child behind to save their own lives.

He furrows his brow, trying not to follow this train of thought to its logical conclusion, but to no avail.

Either his parents couldn't take care of him, or they didn't want to take care of him. He's not sure which option is more painful.

He takes a deep breath and tries to clear his mind. Getting emotional won’t solve anything.

The only thing he can do right now is preparing for a speedy departure once Napoleon and Gaby get back.

Illya hastily continues packing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less of a research note and more of a recommendation:
> 
>   * I just discovered the Noble Blood podcast a few days ago, and if you like dark and gritty stories about royalty, I definitely recommend you check it out! They have an episode about the Romanovs: [Noble Blood - Ever Dearest Cousin Nicky](https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/how-stuff-works/noble-blood/e/63335657)
> 



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's a new chapter for you! I hope you'll enjoy it <3

"So, you think she was trying to flirt with you? Really?" Gaby asks incredulously. Insulting you is the last thing I want to do, but uh... are you _sure_ you're not a little full of yourself?"

"Gaby, dearest, I'm wounded. Do you really think I'm socially inept? I can tell when someone's flirting with me," Napoleon says. "And Victoria Vinciguerra was _flirting_."

"While her husband was right there? I doubt it."

"She was flirting precisely because her husband was right there," Napoleon argues. "I'm pretty sure it was her form of revenge. Don't forget, Alexander Vinciguerra flirted with you first."

The meeting with the Vinciguerra's had ended... awkwardly was the best way to put it, in Gaby's opinion. Her talk with Anya had been going quite well when Victoria and Alexander Vinciguerra had returned and claimed Anya needed rest.

Gaby shared an urgent look with Anya, who looked surprisingly defiant for a moment. Gaby almost expected her to stand up to Victoria Vinciguerra... but then Victoria met Anya's gaze and the latter practically deflated in front of Gaby's eyes. The spark of defiance was gone, replaced by meekness and malleability once more.

"I'm sorry," Anya mouthed before Victoria Vinciguerra grabbed her wrist and led her out of the room, leaving Alexander Vinciguerra to show Gaby and Napoleon to the door.

Now, Napoleon and Gaby are on their way back to their hotel day, discussing the outcome of the failed meeting and debating where they want to have dinner.

"Depends on whether Peril's feeling any better," Napoleon says. "His migraine should be almost gone by now."

"You think so?" Gaby mumbles. "He looked pretty out of it in the morning."

"The migraines rarely last longer than a day," Napoleon replies, as they enter the lobby of their hotel. "He ought to be fine."

Gaby hums in reply. "So, what did you think of Anya?" she says.

They enter the elevator.

"Honestly?" Napoleon replies as the elevator doors are closing. "I was shocked. I never thought they'd be able to amass as many supporters as they did. Anya herself barely believes she's Anastasia. How did they manage to convince so many people?"

Gaby frowns. "Do you think they bribed the supporters? You've heard Victoria - the Vinciguerra's have lots of money."

"Perhaps."

"Anya said at least one of her supporters never even met her," Gaby notes. "Anyway, Waverly has never met her either, and he's perfectly happy to declare she's not Anastasia. I don't understand why the Vinciguerra's didn't bribe _him_? They've got to be aware of his importance. And you'd think he needs money to fuel his addiction."

"I don't think he's got any problems on that front," Napoleon says. "I'm sure the surviving Romanovs supply him with enough funds to keep him comfortable."

The elevator doors open. Napoleon and Gaby exit the elevator and start making their way to their room.

"If they knew he shot Alexey—" Gaby begins.

"But they don't," Napoleon cuts her off. "The thing is, what are we going to do now?"

He knocks on the door. "Peril, it's us!"

Half a second later, the door is being thrown open. Illya practically drags them into the room. Once Gaby and Napoleon are inside, he immediately locks the door again.

"Have you been waiting beside the door?" Napoleon asks, equal parts surprised and concerned. "What's the matter?"

Illya gives them a haunted look. His hair is hanging in his face, making him look younger and more vulnerable than usual. As if to balance it all out, his jaw is clenched, and his eyes are blazing in a febrile blue.

"We're in trouble," he says, handing them a newspaper clipping. "They went after Oleg a lot sooner than we expected. Petrenko is going to want to find us. We need to disappear."

"What?" Gaby asks, gobsmacked. Just a minute ago, she had been joking around with Napoleon... her stomach lurches. They'd been in danger all along and she hadn't even known.

"What do you want us to do?" Napoleon asks. He seemingly recovered from the shock quicker than Gaby. "What's better? Splitting up or staying together? Do you think they'll go after you first, Peril? Or perhaps Gaby and I are the more logical targets?"

Gaby shivers as Napoleon considers their options. Paranoia invades her thoughts. She's grown unaccustomed to it since she's left the Soviet Union. But it's like muscle memory; it's scary how everything falls right back into place, how easy fear takes the helm of her emotions again.

"I don't want us to split up, at least not yet," Illya says. "I have a plan."

Illya hastily starts explaining a scheme he developed for the best part of the afternoon.

"Wait a minute," Napoleon cuts in. "You want Waverly to help us?"

"He's the first person I could think of," Illya says. "I don't like him, but he resides at the Danish embassy. He probably knows exactly what to say to organize a few passports without making a fuss."

"Do you really think he's the best option we have?" Napoleon asks. "There are other ways to acquire passports, too."

"Yes, possibly, but I don't think Waverly would rat us out to the OGPU if they come knocking at his door. I read his book, Cowboy. From what I gathered; he hates the Bolsheviks far more than he'd hate a couple of would-be impostors like us. I'm confident he'll help us, especially once we threaten to blackmail him."

"With the files, you mean?" Gaby asks and shares a concerned look with Napoleon. Considering Illya had come up with the plan in just a few hours, it was quite good, but there were a few glaring flaws. For once, they wouldn't make any money; they'd get neither a finder's reward nor an inheritance out of it. Consequently, Napoleon would still be indebted to the US government and his handler could send him on missions again. Just a few days ago, Napoleon had parted with their one truly valuable possession, the Czarevich's pocket watch. Perhaps the US government would consider Illya's insider knowledge as a defected OGPU agent payment enough, but Gaby wouldn't bet on it. If they followed Illya's plan, they had to disappear altogether and forge brand new identities for themselves. Additionally, they'd have to hide from both the governments of the Soviet Union and the United States...

However, one look into Illya's eyes betrayed his unshakeable resolve, as though he'd be able to save the three of them through sheer willpower alone.

* * *

The Danish embassy is an elegant, yet unassuming building, especially compared to the Vinciguerra residence. Once inside, three of them come face to face with an annoyed official. “Do you have an appointment?” he asks them in German.

“Technically, we don’t,” Gaby replies. “But we’d like to speak with Alexander Waverly. He acts as the representative of the Imperial Family, doesn’t he?”

The official furrows his brow until they’re nearly touching on his wrinkled forehead. He takes off his glasses and begins to clean them. “You’ve just said it,” he says disinterestedly. “Lord Waverly acts as a representative of the Imperial Family. He doesn’t have the time to meet with every _nonentity_ who’d like to see him.”

Gaby clears her throat. “What if we have information about the whereabouts of Czar Nicholas, his wife, and his children? Would Lord Waverly meet with us then?”

The official sighs. “I sincerely doubt you can offer anything of _interest_ ,” he says. “If you knew how many wild claims about the Imperial Family I’ve already heard… I’ll speak plainly: Just give up and go home.”

“Excuse me, but I’m personally acquainted with Alexander Waverly,” Napoleon says. “And he knows I’ve managed to dig up _classified_ information.”

Illya reaches into the briefcase he’s carrying, takes out a file and shows it to the official. “Straight from the OGPU archives in Moscow.”

The official takes a cursory glance at the file.

“At least take a look at the documents,” Gaby insists. “You have no idea what Illya Nikolaevich had to go to in order to obtain them.”

The man puts his glasses back on and starts leafing through the file. “I admit you’re more proficient at forgery than the average conman, but I don’t see any reason to bother Lord Waverly.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Gaby sees how Napoleon gives Illya a pointed look. Illya nods and joins Gaby in front of the official, drawing himself up to his full height.

“Listen, I don’t understand what’s so outrageous about our request that you wouldn’t pass it on to Lord Waverly,” Illya begins. “We’re not asking to be received in audience by the Dowager Empress, are we?”

The official looks up at Illya. His disinterest has morphed into exasperation. “I’ve already told you; you won’t be allowed to meet Lord Waverly.”

Illya gently nudges Gaby with his elbow and she finally catches on.

“We understand that, of course. You’re just trying to do a good job, Sir. That’s _admirable_ ,” she says, making sure she’s making eye-contact with the man at all times. “I can only imagine how many people want to bother Lord Waverly with the most trivial issues. However, we desperately need to talk to Lord Waverly and I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s _urgent_. Do you think you could make an exception?”

The official looks conflicted. “If you had an official summons,” he says with an uncertain undertone. “Otherwise, this goes against protocol.”

“We don’t have enough time to follow protocol,” Illya insists. “Are you going to let us talk to Lord Waverly or not? I guarantee the information we have is _vital_. Lord Waverly would certainly not be pleased to find out you’ve tried to keep us from talking to him.”

“I don’t know,” the official mumbles. “I’m not supposed to—”

“Mr. Hoffmann, have you kept my friends waiting?” a jovial male voice calls out. “Imagine my surprise when Napoleon Solo knocked at my door and told me you wouldn’t allow them to see me!”

Gaby looks up just in time to see a smirking Napoleon stroll up to the official’s desk, Alexander Waverly hot on his heels.

The official – Mr. Hoffmann – pats his forehead dry with a handkerchief. “I’m so sorry, Lord Waverly,” he stammers. “I didn’t realize they were your friends.”

Gaby has to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. ‘Friends’ is such an exaggeration. Neither Illya nor her have ever even met Waverly before and even Napoleon has only met him twice before.

“Please, there’s no need to apologize, Mr. Hoffmann,” Waverly says off-handedly, not even looking at Mr. Hoffmann. Instead, his gaze is fixed on Illya and Gaby. “If you’d be so kind as to follow me to my office? I’m sure we’ll have an exceedingly enlightening conversation.”

Sharing triumphant grins, they follow Waverly through the corridors of the embassy. He leads them to an elegantly decorated sitting room.

Gaby realizes it’s the first time she’s seen Waverly up close. Of course, she’s seen photographs, showing Waverly posing with the Grand Duchesses and the Czarevich. But back then he’d been a much younger man. Since then, he’s shaved off his beard and wrinkles have dug their way into his once handsome face. There are people to whom age is kind and their wrinkles tell a story, adding to the fascination of their character. In Alexander Waverly’s case, his face tells a story of ruin and decay.

“Make yourselves comfortable, why don’t you?” he says, gesturing to the sitting room suite.

Gaby and Napoleon take him up on the offer and sit down, while Illya remains standing.

“I’d offer you a drink if I could,” Waverly continues wistfully. “The occasion would certainly call for champagne, but I’m afraid it’s in frightfully short supply here at the embassy.”

Waverly smiles. He looks better like that, more like the man in the photographs Gaby’s seen. More like someone she could see Napoleon spend a night with, her treacherous mind supplies, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to suppress the urge to giggle.

“Anyway, you must know how much it means to me to see you again,” Waverly says in an uncharacteristically thick voice.

Gaby frowns. ‘Again?’ The only member of their trio who’s personally acquainted with Waverly is Napoleon, and even that acquaintance amounted to little more than a short-lived tryst, a decade ago. Knowing Napoleon, he must have left a certain impression, but even then… What prompts Waverly to feel so emotional?

Drug use, she recalls. Perhaps the substances did more damage to his brain than what was apparent at first glance.

“Napoleon, I thought I was used to your trickeries by now, but you still managed to deceive me,” Waverly says, with the oddest smile on his face. “You promised to bring me an OGPU agent just now, didn’t you?”

“To be fair, I didn’t exactly _promise_ —”

“Let’s not mince our words,” Waverly cuts him off. “You told me the OGPU agent who’d located the Czarevich was waiting for me. However, I don’t see an OGPU agent.” He pauses, furrows his brows and fixes Gaby with an inquisitive look. “Unless, of course… I’m sorry, that was terribly old-fashioned of me. I must admit, it didn’t occur to me that women could be agents, too.”

Gaby blinks in surprise. “I’ve _never_ worked for the OGPU,” she says and shares a look of confusion with Illya. 

“The OGPU agent,” Illya begins, “Is right here. You’re looking at him.”

Waverly’s eyes widen to an almost comical degree before he regains his composure. “Now, you know I appreciate a good joke as much as the next person—”

“I’m not _joking_. Not in the slightest,” Illya snarls in a tone which would have intimidated anyone…

Except for Alexander Waverly, apparently. He only stares at Illya, a look of blatant incomprehension on his face. “You?” he says in a feeble voice. “An OGPU agent? Indeed?”

“Why is that so difficult to believe for you?” Illya asks. 

Waverly throws his head back and laughs hysterically. “I can’t believe it,” he gasps, fighting for air. “They made… an _OGPU_ _agent_ …”

Gaby feels equal parts concerned and disturbed. “Lord Waverly… Uhm, do you need help?” she asks tentatively.

Waverly shakes his head, slowly recovering from the bout of hysteria. He wipes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. “I apologize for the impudence,” Waverly says with a knowing twinkle in his eyes, as he looks at Illya. “But you are the last person I would’ve expected to become an agent for the OGPU.”

“What do you mean?” Illya asks slowly, squinting at Waverly as though he’s not sure whether Waverly is being serious or if he’s being mocked.

Waverly seems unimpressed and looks Illya up and down. “However, if you indeed became an OPGU agent, my deception worked even better than I dared to hope… even though the family resemblance is uncanny. You’re the spitting image of your grandfather, Your Imperial Highness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll leave you with the cliffhanger for now, but I promise there will be more research notes at the end of the next chapter, including some I've been dying to share with you ever since I've started writing this fic!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, sorry for the long wait! I have a track record at being Bad at finishing fics, and whipping this final chapter into shape took awhile! To make it up to you, I've included a little bonus epilogue! So you're not getting just one chapter in this update, but two! Hope you'll enjoy! :)

_“I apologize for the impudence,” Waverly says with a knowing twinkle in his eyes, as he looks at Illya. “But you are the last person I would’ve expected to become an agent for the OGPU.”_

_“What do you mean?” Illya asks slowly, squinting at Waverly as though he’s not sure whether Waverly is being serious or if he’s being mocked._

_Waverly seems unimpressed and looks Illya up and down. “However, if you indeed became an OPGU agent, my deception worked even better than I dared to hope… even though the family resemblance is uncanny. You’re the spitting image of your grandfather, Your Imperial Highness.”_

* * *

“You must be joking,” Illya says reflexively before he even truly registered the impact of Waverly’s words. “You must be _joking_ ,” he repeats. His voice comes out weak and trembling. Illya feels a surprisingly intense bout of self-hatred. Why can’t he contradict Waverly with the necessary force?

Waverly shakes his head. “This is the last thing about which I’d ever dare to make jokes,” he says, looking Illya straight in the eye. “As I said, you’re the spitting image of your grandfather. The height, the hair, the eyes… but that look on your face! Just like Czarina Alexandra.”

“Stop this, right now,” Illya forces out. “Stop talking, stop with your _nonsense_ —”

It’s all coming back to him now. He recalls remarks made in a completely different context, but they suddenly take on a whole new, sickening meaning.

_“_ Nobody _would ever suspect a child of the Czar could be hidden in plain sight.”_

_“Alexander III. sounds like he could have given you a run for your money.”_

_“Who says that he really shot the_ prince _? After all, it could be the skeleton of any boy.”_

The meager contents of Illya’s stomach threaten to make a sudden reappearance and he squeezes his eyes shut as if that’s enough to stop the memories from coming back, memories which he’d assumed were nothing but forbidden figments of his treacherous imagination. For the longest time, he dismissed these recollections as dangerous flights of fancy, because Oleg’s advice had taken root. Over the years, Illya’s become such a good actor, he even ended up fooling himself with his performance.

But now, it seems time has come for the proletarian to shed his skin and reveal the prince hidden underneath.

_Alexey_. He turns the name over in his mind. It feels unfamiliar and slightly uncomfortable, like an old suit he’s outgrown. Illya can’t bring himself to identify with the name. Not yet.

He opens his eyes again.

Waverly is giving him a concerned look. “Your Imperial Highness? Are you feeling unwell?”

The tone of voice _does_ something to Illya… he racks his brain and he thinks he can remember a guardsman – Dyuzhenkov? – carrying him through a park in the bitingly cold dead of night, a hand clasped over Illya’s mouth to prevent him from calling for a father and mother he’d never see again. He remembers stumbling along through dimly lit back alleys, trying to follow Dyuzhenkov and Waverly as they ran from the Bolsheviks. He’d been tired, dirty, and hungry and possibly for the first time in his life, there were no servants to attend to his needs. Back then, he’d gotten his first taste of hunger, a sentiment with which he’d become intimately acquainted in the following years. Never enough rations, never enough connections to talk your way into a decent meal and a full stomach. Along with the whole country, Illya learned to live in a perpetual state of shortage and deprivation, at least until the day Oleg Kuryakin replaced Nikolay Zhukov at the dinner table.

“If you say that I am…” Illya pauses. He can’t bring himself to say the name just yet. “If I’m the _Czarevich_ , then who was the boy you and Dyuzhenkov were stringing along?” Illya asks. “The one you shot and buried?”

“So, I take it Dyuzhenkov was arrested,” Waverly mumbles. “I’m sorry to hear that. But it also means our plan worked. Tell me, did the OGPU suspect anything?”

“No,” Illya replies, feeling sick to his stomach. “We didn’t suspect anything. We generally assumed you were lying. In his confession, Dyuzhenkov didn’t say anything about the bullet hole in the boy’s head, by the way. That came as a surprise when we dug up the body. You haven’t answered my question – who was the boy?”

“If there’d been any other way, I promise you we would have taken it, but… anyway, he was the sickly son of a peasant family. I’m not sure what they thought we wanted with him, but they seemed happy with the money we gave them in exchange for the boy.”

“You _bought_ a child?” Gaby asks in disbelief. “Just so you could kill and bury him?”

Illya quickly glances at Napoleon – he looks just as aghast as Gaby.

“You don’t understand, the boy was practically at death’s door already,” Waverly replies. “The boy died for a greater cause! He sacrificed his life to save the heir to the throne!”

Illya tries to reconcile the man in front of him with the pale specter in his childhood memories. He dimly remembers a younger Alexander Waverly looking into his eyes, swearing to do everything he can to keep him safe. Now, he imagines that same version of Waverly aiming a gun at a young, sickly boy and pulling the trigger.

The laconic way Waverly justifies his actions frightens Illya. Waverly talks as though it was normal to expect someone else to make the ultimate sacrifice for Illya’s sake. Who did Waverly think Illya was? _Stalin_?

He…

During the Great War, a million men laid their lives down for the Czar. For Waverly, the boy had probably just been one more life cut short to be added to the statistic.

“I have another question,” Illya says. “If you went to such great lengths to set the Bolsheviks on the wrong track that you even willingly killed a child… then why did you think it was a good idea to leave me with the Zhukov’s?”

Waverly gives him a pained look. “We were in a bit of a… long story short, we had to improvise. You were running a high fever when you fell and hit your head. You said you’re an agent for the OGPU, I don’t suppose I need to tell you how much head wounds tend to bleed?”

Illya shakes his head and reflexively reaches up to touch the old scar on his temple. “What did you do?”

“We were rather unsuccessfully trying to stanch the bleeding in a back alley of Moscow when Vasilisa Zhukova found us. I suppose she took pity on us. We were all looking worse for wear, we’d lost weight and it had been a while since any of us had last had the opportunity to take a proper bath. We were doing our best to blend in, which was much easier for Dyuzhenkov than for me. My Russian has never been accent-free.”

“So, my mother took you in,” Illya says. “But why did you leave me with the Zhukov’s? Did you have any idea what a large risk you were taking?” He tries to think back to the scene Waverly describes, but it’s like he’s got a mental block in his head.

Waverly must have noticed Illya’s confusion because he gives him a sympathetic look. “They struck us as very compassionate. I mostly kept my mouth shut, as to not tip them off, but Dyuzhenkov was telling them a sob story about your family and the horrible things the Bolsheviks had done to them. He actually stuck quite close to the truth. He just didn’t give them names.”

“Alright,” Illya cuts in. “What were you thinking? What was your _plan_? I mean, it can’t have been ‘Let’s leave the heir to the Russian throne with this random couple we’ve just met.’”

“You’re absolutely right, leaving you with the Zhukov’s indefinitely was not part of the plan,” Waverly sighs. “At the time, we were hoping the revolution would turn out to be a fluke. We thought it was only a question of time until forces loyal to the Czar would intervene and exorcize this 'specter of communism' if you will. We didn’t expect the regime to last this long. And we _certainly_ didn’t expect you to pick the OGPU as a career path. Although, ever since you told me, I’ve been wondering what exactly made you choose the OGPU of all things.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” Illya says. “Nikolay Zhukov was arrested a few years after they’d taken me in. Vasilisa got married again, to a high-ranking member of the Communist Party this time. I assume you’ve heard of Oleg Kuryakin.”

Waverly’s eyes widen. “The head of the OGPU?” he asks. “Or the former head of the OGPU, I suppose. I’ve read the news. My sympathies.” He frowns and pauses to massage his temples. “I knew leaving you in Russia was bound to be a close call, but I never imagined… How did you even manage to leave the country if the head of the OGPU himself was watching your every move?”

“Oleg helped, actually,” Illya says and feels a pang of melancholy, speaking about his late adoptive father. “He knew he would be removed from office and put on trial rather sooner than later. So, he set up a plan to at least save me and my loved ones. He saved my life, just as you did.”

“You don’t… he can’t have _known_ , can he?” Waverly asks.

Illya pauses, recalling Oleg’s cryptic hidden note. “I’m not sure,” he replies slowly. “I believe he’s harbored some suspicions and he probably didn’t think I was just another ordinary war orphan. But I can’t imagine he knew I was… that I’m the heir to the throne. Oleg might have been willing to transgress some rules in the name of family ties and paternal affection, but he wouldn’t have willingly hidden the Czarevich. I suspect it would have been quite the shock if he’d ever found out.”

Illya considers Napoleon and Gaby before he fixes Waverly with a probing glance. “Speaking of me being the Czarevich, I have a question for you: Is there an inheritance? We’ve heard rumors about hefty reward money for finding a surviving member of the Imperial Family. And there’s supposed to be an inheritance of twenty-five million gold rubles. Or is it simply a ruse to pretend the Romanovs are still wealthy and powerful, even though they lost the throne, and a great deal of the family lost their lives?”

“You are, in fact, correct. There is an inheritance. Whether some family members would be happy to part with it for good, I cannot say, but I'll naturally support your claim.” He points to Illya's hand, the simple gold band reflecting the light. “I also have a question for you: Are you married?”

Gaby sticks out her hand and flashes her wedding ring. “How do I even introduce myself now? Gabriella Romanova?”

Waverly raises one of his eyebrows. “Napoleon, my eyes aren’t what they used to be, but when we met at the racetrack… didn’t you tell me Miss Gabriella was your girlfriend?”

Napoleon nods. “And I wasn’t lying to you,” he says. “For once.”

“And your point is…?” Gaby asks.

Waverly gives the three of them a peculiar look before he recovers his composure. “To answer your question, Miss Gabriella: It all depends on where you got married. In Moscow, I presume? A civil marriage? I can’t imagine the OGPU would allow their agents to have a church wedding.”

“No sooner than they’d employ a Romanov, I suppose,” Illya says drily, wrapping an arm around Gaby’s waist. “But yes, we got married in a civil wedding ceremony.”

Waverly clicks his tongue. “In that case, Miss Gabriella cannot be considered a member of the Imperial Family,” he says. “The House of Romanov would never accept a civil ceremony according to Soviet law as a proper marriage. You might as well not be married at all.”

“Alexander, you said Illya is the Czarevich,” Napoleon cuts in. “That ought to make him head of the House of Romanov, right? He’d be the one to decide whether his marriage to Gaby is valid or not. And I should mention, it was an arranged marriage. They only got married because Illya’s father told them to. It doesn’t get more aristocratic than that, does it?”

“The Dowager Empress would surely be impressed,” Waverly comments sarcastically. “But I’m afraid the rules are very strict, and I doubt anyone would let you… well, I suppose you might be removed from succession, although there might be exceptions.”

Illya shrugs. “Succession? It’s all hypothetical, isn’t it? There can’t be anyone who thinks they could overthrow the communist regime and re-establish an autocratic monarchy in Russia.”

Waverly blushes. “You’d be surprised how many people are actually working towards that goal.”

“I don’t believe their efforts have a chance of success,” Illya says and looks directly at Napoleon for a moment. “While some foreign powers have sent agents to the Soviet Union with the goal of destabilizing the regime, our methods of counterintelligence are quite effective.”

“Really? ‘Methods of counter-intelligence’?” Napoleon drawls. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

Waverly narrows his eyes and curiously looks from Illya to Napoleon and back again but chooses not to comment on Napoleon’s innuendo.

Illya is actually quite relieved, he doesn’t particularly want to waste valuable time discussing his love life with his former teacher, of all people. “Alexander, you were talking about the monarchist movement?” he prompts.

“Ah yes. You see, the monarchist movement is divided amongst multiple pretenders to the throne, most of which are… well, let’s say there’s no love lost between me and any of them. Your Imperial Highness, if your heritage were to be made public, the monarchist movement could rally around the legitimate heir to the throne. Support for the monarchy would most certainly be revived.”

“I don’t think so,” Illya says. “I would not let them use me as their… as their poster child for the counterrevolution. Returning to the monarchy isn’t going to improve anything. And anyway, we have bigger problems.”

Illya does his best to banish the vague memories of palaces, luxuries, and family life. He needs to forget all notions of autocracy and the divine right to rule. Waverly’s words nearly managed to make him forget what they’ve come here for.

It’s very probable that, right now, in a sound-proof office on Lyubyanka Square, Sergey Petrenko is drawing up an execution list with the names Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon Solo, and Gabriella Kuryakina at the top.

“What sort of problems?” Waverly asks cautiously, as though he’s afraid to hear the answer.

Illya takes a deep breath. “I won’t be able to become the Czarevich you want me to become. There are already enough people who want me dead, even without knowing that I’m a Romanov. Oleg has powerful enemies who’d love nothing more than going after his family members. If my heritage were to be made public, it would put me and my loved ones in danger. And that’s the exact thing I want to avoid.”

Waverly doesn’t look too pleased with the prospect. “I do understand that, but… Your Imperial Highness, don’t you know that you could be a symbol of hope? A symbol of hope for all the Russians in exile who suffered under the Bolsheviks?”

Illya furrows his brow. “And how many Russians suffered under the Czars, too? If you try to make me into any kind of symbol, I can practically guarantee future assassination attempts. Do you want that? You’ve gone to such great lengths to conceal me from the Bolsheviks and now you want to serve them the Czarevich on a silver platter? I don’t think so.”

“None of the various pretenders got into trouble for their claims,” Waverly throws in. “If the OGPU is as ruthless as you say, why were none of the Anastasias, Marias, Tatianas, or Olgas ever assassinated by OGPU agents?”

“Because we knew what happened to the real Grand Duchesses,” Illya replies. “We interrogated the guards and we’ve localized all the bodies. Well, we thought we did. We’ve already established that your decoy worked. The point is if you publicized my heritage and the Imperial Family would support me, a thing they haven’t done for any of the pretenders, then the OGPU would quickly realize who they’ve let slip through their fingers. And it’s not as though they’re going to be particularly happy with my defection anyway. The way things are, me being known as Illya Kuryakin is enough to arouse the OGPU’s anger. If I start going by Alexey Romanov…” Illya trails off, shaking his head. “It’s not a good idea.”

Waverly gives the three of them a thoughtful look. “Then I suppose we need to draw up passports for you,” he says. “Your Imperial Highness, Miss Gabriella, Napoleon… any preferences regarding your new names?”

Illya’s lips curl into a tiny smile, tinged with equal parts melancholy and relief. He’s been a prince again for less than an hour and now it’s time to relinquish the title once again. Since he knows that it’s the right thing to do to protect the people he loves, he’s convinced he won’t have any regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been _dying_ to share these last few research notes with you ever since I started writing this fic:
> 
>   * Illya's adoptive mother's first name was a bit of a red herring throughout the story. Her name's [Vasilisa](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vasilisa_\(name\)%20), which means "queen" or "empress". I'm not even sorry, I just love wordplay. xD
>   * [There's actually been a spy](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Goleniewski) who worked as a triple agent for the Polish SB, the Russian KGB, and the American CIA and who also claimed to be Czarevich Alexey.
>   * I got the main idea for this story when I was reading about [another Alexey Romanov pretender](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eugene_Nicolaievich_Ivanoff) and I thought he kind of [looks like Armie Hammer if you squint](https://images.findagrave.com/photos250/photos/2011/138/70069696_130584410245.jpg).
> 



	13. Bonus - Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, as promised, a little bonus epilogue! I hope you've had fun reading this fic, I've certainly had fun writing it! <333

If you asked the average American to visualize a man working for the secret service and give a detailed description of what they imagined such a man to look like, the vast majority of people would not come up with a description that matched Sanders. In his own not so humble opinion, Sanders thought that most people probably didn’t have the slightest idea of what the average spy looked like.

The movies were at fault, Sanders thought - movies had never been a good idea, and especially since Hollywood had invented _talkies_ … they only served to put ridiculously far-fetched ideas into people’s heads. Like the idea that spies ought to look glamorous, like a leading actor in a movie.

In fact, most spies did not look like leading actors in movies at all. What good was it when the person you sent to obtain classified information turned heads left and right? No, you wanted people who managed to be forgettable. You wanted people who could be perfectly nice and charming enough to make people divulge sensitive details they would have otherwise not given away - but they also had to be so bland and colorless that you’d forget them as soon as they left the room.

In Sanders’ mind, you certainly did not want your spies to leave a lasting impression. The perfect spy, in his opinion, would be so unremarkable they’d never need any alias or pseudonym at all. 

Tough luck that one of the agents under his command was a man nobody ever managed to forget.

Napoleon Solo… _Solo_ , who was so disconcertingly pretty for a man that Sanders couldn’t help the irrational urge to punch him every time he saw him. To his credit, Sanders knew that Solo probably got the same urge every time they met and so they balanced each other out in their mutual disrespect.

Napoleon Solo, the exception to every rule ever written, looked _exactly_ like a lead actor in a movie, and if it had been up to Sanders, that’s what he would have become. An actor, not an agent.

Solo was too full of himself to be an effective spy. Just like his namesake, he was prone to overestimating his own abilities and buying into the myth, so to speak. After ingesting a few too many drinks, Sanders was not ashamed to admit he’d hoped Russia would treat Napoleon Solo about as well as it had treated Napoleon Bonaparte. However, contrary to Sanders’s wildest hopes and dreams, the American had managed to cozy up to Mother Russia in a way the Corsican hadn’t, taking advantage of his unnatural inclinations to seduce an OGPU agent of all things.

God knows what Sanders had done wrong to deserve being this man’s handler. What did it say about the government if it contracted people like _that_ to handle classified information?

Judging from the money Solo still owed to the government, Sanders wouldn’t be rid of the pesky cheat for at least a few more years. He’d expected the Russians to handle the problem for him, but Solo had managed to integrate himself into Soviet society much better than expected - being a thief probably helped in a society that had nothing but disregard for the concept of private property.

Still, the assignment in Moscow would keep Solo an ocean away from Sanders for at least another few years. Or so he assumed.

At this very moment, a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man in his early thirties is making his way towards Sanders’s office. Napoleon Solo has never had any respect for his handler either. Oleg Kuryakin had had a lot of flaws, but at least that man had possessed some self-awareness, an ounce of humor, and a somewhat good heart, all of which cannot be said about Sanders. The only thing that stirs Sanders’ emotions is the number on his paycheck.

Yet, it’s this man who Napoleon Solo - a heavy leather suitcase in hand - is seeking out. The suitcase is filled to the brink with crisp green dollar notes.

The money had come from the five bank accounts set up by Czar Nicholas II. for his children. The contents of all five of them had quietly and discreetly passed into the possession of the Czar’s only surviving child.

Just a fraction of it is enough to pay off Napoleon’s debts for good. He doesn’t take the elevator up to Sanders’s office, preferring to walk all the way. He goes out of his way to be nice to every single employee he meets on the way, flashing them a dazzling smile and offering a compliment or two. He’s cheerfully whistling a tune from the latest hit movie as he gets closer and closer to Sanders’ office.

He walks up to Sanders’s secretary Cheryl, who eyes him with suspicion.

“Agent Solo,” she says warily, looking him up and down as though he’s a ghost. “You’re not due for a personal report.”

“It’s a surprise,” Napoleon says. “For Mr. Sanders.”

“Mr. Sanders doesn’t like surprises,” she says, reaching for the telephone on her desk. “I’d better tell him you’re here to see him.”

Napoleon quickly puts his hand on the telephone, preventing her from calling his boss - well, former boss. “Let’s keep it a secret,” he says, giving her a provocative wink. 

“I’m not sure—” Cheryl begins, but Napoleon doesn’t pay attention anymore, instead he takes advantage of her momentary confusion to bypass her and knock at Sanders’ door.

Napoleon enters the office, ignoring Cheryl’s complaints. He’s surprised to see how little things have changed ever since his last visit, years ago.

“Solo,” Sanders says through gritted teeth. “Can’t say it’s a _pleasure_ to see you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Napoleon says, feigning closing the office door. He leaves it open just a little bit, so Cheryl could eavesdrop on their conversation. A confrontation between her boss and the spy he finds most infuriating would be a hit at the watercooler, ensuring the story of Napoleon’s triumphant return from Russia spreads like a wildfire among the employees.

“Stop beating around the bush, Solo” Sanders snarls. “Cut to the chase. What are you doing here anyway? Did Russia get too cold for you? Did you come to beg me for a different assignment? No luck, straight back to the commies you’ll go if it’s up to me. And would you know it? It _is_ up to me.”

“It’s not. I’m not taking orders from you anymore,” Napoleon counters with a self-satisfied smirk. “I’m here to pay off my debts.”

He holds up the suitcase to illustrate his point before placing it on Sanders’ desk.

“Count it if you want,” Napoleon says. “You’ll find that everything’s in order. And should you ever feel the need to contact me again, here’s a friendly word of advice: _Don’t_.”

Napoleon turns on his heels and leaves Sanders’s office with a spring in his step and an easy smile on his face. He doesn’t feel any nostalgia for the profession he leaves behind. Napoleon is a man of many talents and now, he’ll enjoy the fruits of his labor and spend his well-deserved retirement with the people he loves.

He wouldn’t want it any other way.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all the people who commented on this fic and/or left kudos! The support meant a lot to me! <3333

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this chapter, please consider leaving a comment and/or kudos! <3
> 
>   * The first "Anastasia" movie I could find is called "Anastasia - Die falsche Zarentochter" ("Anastasia - The False Czar's Daughter") - it is a German silent movie from 1928. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to find it online.
>   * In 1952, French playwright Marcelle Maurette wrote a play called "Anastasia" (You can [read a 1954 translation by Guy Bolton](https://archive.org/stream/playsoftheyearvo000830mbp#page/n159/mode/2up) or [listen to a 1982 radio adaption](https://archive.org/details/Anastasia_201611) by the BBC - this play served as the basis for the [1956 movie "Anastasia" starring Ingrid Bergmann](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anastasia_\(1956_film\)), which in turn served as the inspiration for the 1997 movie "Anastasia".
>   * As preparation for this fic, I also watched the [German 1956 movie "Anastasia - Die letzte Zarentochter"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BSRUWmvHfok) ("Anastasia - The Last Daughter of the Czar"), which is loosely based on the life story of [famous Anastasia-impostor Anna Anderson](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anna_Anderson)
>   * The organization known as KGB in the 1960s was called [OGPU from 1923 to 1934](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joint_State_Political_Directorate), which is why Illya works for the OGPU in this fic.
>   * Illya's patronymic is based on this post: <https://mfu-canteen.livejournal.com/2156840.html>
>   * Gaby's fake last name is a play on words - at the beginning of the movie, Napoleon calls her ["Fräulein Schmidt"](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schmidt_\(surname\)%20). The Russian version of the German family name "Schmidt" is ["Kuznetsov"](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kuznetsov).
> 



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